Maggi went to New Jersey last week for her high school class reunion, and I received a cryptic e-mail hours after her latest projected arrival date: "Here safe. Tell you about the car later." Uh-oh. This was like the old joke about the Jewish mother's telegram home: "Start worrying. Second telegram follows." The explanation, in a second e-mail sent a day of fretting later, said she'd had to stop at an auto parts store and replace the air filter. The whole story came out nearly a week later.
The car had been gasping, sometimes stalling. It turns out this was due to a clogged air filter, and that came about because of rodent occupation of the filter compartment. Among other things, the predictable dessicated nuts and nesting materials, there was an unexpected treasure in that air filter: the critter had discovered Maggi's stash of Hershey's kisses in the car, unwrapped them, and transferred them to its hiding place. Steal her chocolate? "This means war!" At least that explains why the air filter needed to be replaced, not just cleaned: the chocolate had melted in the heat of the engine compartment, coating the filter. Car engines are not designed to run with chocolate-dipped air filters. This is why the engine was gasping: It was running on too rich an air mixture.
She was not the only one with rodent encounters. Three mornings ago I staggered out of the bedroom, and when I got to the part of my morning routine where I opened the pantry to get tea, a mouse which had been perched atop the pantry door was flung off, hitting me in the head, scrabbling for purchase on my face, then dropping to the floor and scampering under the breakfront. THAT woke me up, to be sure. And anyone else within a quarter-mile, who might have heard the scream. I am not the sort of female who shrieks at the sight of mice, but when one lays an aerial ambush before I am barely awake, I think I can be excused my quite audible reaction.
I have been lecturing the cats on their household responsibilities ever since.
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