A Desert Tale

The desert was everywhere now. I knew that. I adapted. I learned drip irrigation and grew Indian corn. I planted gourds and used them as utensils and containers. I learned to weave baskets. I learned to trap and kill jack rabbits ( though not to enjoy it). I made peace with snakes and (sort of) with scorpions. I had my small water source and my shelter. I had never needed much in the way of human companionship. I was fine, I told myself.

And I was, more less, fine -- except for the mice. They seemed to think of my place as a five-star rodent hotel and resort. They ate everything soft, and most food. I couldn't keep them out, and containers made of baskets and gourds only seemed to encourage them to raid the contents.

Then a few weeks ago, I saw -- cats! Brown and tan and slender, and natural mousers! I remembered then that all domestic cats are descended from the cats of Egypt. These had reverted to their ancestral form in order to survive. Egyptian cats saved the grain from ruin in ancient times. Perhaps they would save mine, too. I wooed them with bits of rabbit meat and soft words. I offered them the best place in my house, with a warm blanket, a dish of water always full, and their own entrance.

Finally, last week, a young cat moved in. He purrs, he keeps me company, and he catches the mice. I am content. And so civilization begins again, with a partnership between a woman and a cat.