Saturday, February 10, 2001


When Mrs. Baslow put her coat on this morning she felt something in the sleeve, a small protruberance. Then she felt it move. She did a frantic, if fetching, little shimmy to quickly slough off the coat, which fell to the floor. Then she tore her sweater off. Her children, not knowing the cause of this little bit of choreography, were highly amused. Baslow, unsure as to the cause, mischievously suggested she take off her shirt. She thought this was a good idea and did...but put it back on again, much too soon for Baslow's taste. She then expressed her belief that there was a mouse in her coat. The coat was picked up off the floor, laid on a table, and prodded and flattened by several parties, until a fast, small, grey blur emerged, jumped to the floor in full sight of the two resident cats, and hid itself behind a breakfront. Pandemonium briefly ensued among the members of the family, although the cats (both of whom are far too fat) seemed to take it all in stride. Now, twelve hours later, the mouse seems to be ensconced among the hundred bric-a-brac atop the breakfront. The cats sit and stare up. The family has gone to bed or, in Baslow's case, is about to go to bed. We all hope for a resolution of this situation.

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