Writer’s block is a terrible thing for a writer. So many thoughts wandering between the synapses, none of which seem to lend themselves to an insightful, or even mildly entertaining, 600 words or so.

And so, it was. as I sat there in my study staring at a blank screen on the computer machine.

Occasionally I would glance over my right shoulder listening to the scurrying of the mouse (or more likely, mice) who inhabit the third shelf of my bookcase. In a 130-year-old house, such domesticated wildlife comes with the territory. Rarely, I would catch a momentary glimpse of my tiny rodent friend (or more likely, friends) nibbling at the cat food located on top of the non-functioning wine refrigerator located next to the wall of books.

This sight, in turn, caused me to question the dedication to her job of Cleopatra, the cat, (“Cleo” for short) who, at that moment, was in the dining room at the other end of the house grooming herself in a chair warmly lit by sunshine streaming through a window.

I have a bad history with mice.

I am a carnivore. I will happily chow down on any manner of dead animal. Cow, pig, sheep, bird, fish, you name it. However, I can’t bring myself to kill anything on my own dime. I have been known to coax bugs onto pieces of paper, and then take them outside to release into the wild.

Except mosquitoes. Mosquitoes I kill summarily, without any semblance of due process.

Mice aren’t mosquitoes. Hence, my story.

The last time I tried to terminate a mouse, the instrument of death was a trap consisting of sheet of extremely sticky paper. Sure enough, within a short period of time, one of the little rodents was trapped, vainly trying to wriggle free, only to become more fatally entangled with each attempt.

Taking pity, I took the sticky paper, with the struggling mouse attached, outside, and proceeded to attempt to separate the mouse from the instrument of death with my fingers.

Whereupon, the little ingrate bit me.

Try explaining that history to the folks in the emergency room as I explained the need for a tetanus shot.

To make matters worse, when I ran back into the house to display my bleeding digit to the missus, I dropped the instrument of death, with attack mouse still attached, on the floor.

The attack mouse then managed to engineer its own escape to points unknown. I strongly suspect it is the ancestor, several generations removed, of the residents currently occupying the third shelf of my bookcase.

I have become accustomed to hanging my head in humiliation as the missus regales anyone in the vicinity of her lovely voice with the entire somewhat embarrassing story.

Anyway, getting back to writer’s block.

It’s not so much that there isn’t anything to write about. To the contrary, there is so much to write about that it is hard to concentrate on any one thing long enough to pound out a column.

I’ve almost given up on the current resident of the White House. He has said and done so many things that would at other times be disqualifying, that I am beyond being scandalized, or even surprised.

I have given almost up any hope of reasoning with his supporters. I can understand supporting a narcissist who, nevertheless, gets things done. I can even understand supporting a nice guy who, nevertheless, gets nothing done.

Continuing to support a narcissist who, nevertheless, gets nothing done is beyond me.

But that’s just me.

Ed, and you know who you are, feel free to take a shot.

Meanwhile, as this is written late at night, Cleo is on her stool, which is located next to the non-functioning wine refrigerator, upon which is her cat food, and she appears to be paying much attention to the third shelf of my bookcase.

Perhaps if she can find a way to do her job, I can find a way to do mine.

And all that’s a bit over 600 words!