Liza Bean

Liza Bean, my cat, is 20 years old. Her black fur is losing its luster. She sleeps 20 hours a day and doesn't hear when I call her name. At night she lays by my pillow and only gets up to vomit a fur ball at the side of my bed. It's sad to watch her slow down and become an old cat.
So, imagine my surprise this morning when she was playful, chasing her tail around the bed before the alarm went off. I reached over to give her a pat on the head, my plea to go back to sleep for a bit until the sun starts to come up and there it was, in bed with us, still alive and ready to run…a mouse.
I screamed. She ran. The mouse flew in the air as I threw the blankets. I turned the light on, grabbed a flip flop for protection and ever so gingerly tip toed around my bedroom in search of a mouse. It was frightened and wounded in the corner. I let Liza chase it into the closet and I sat on the edge of my bed, questioning once again if I am capable of living by myself.
I may never sleep again. Which is fine, it gives me plenty of time to think about how to get the mouse out of my closet.