Inside the beautiful oak veneer console stretching the length of the control room, a mouse works hard building a nest amidst the wires. It’s grown so bold it interrupted my phone call hours ago and was going strong until fifteen minutes ago. I admire such industry.
I tried to silence it by rapping on the console with a pencil, but was ignored.
“Do you know you have a rodent in your console?” I asked my husband whose truck had suffered a previous issue with inconsistent stereo reception when a mouse had nested in the wires.
“Yes, I know,” he replied, playing Hotel California on one of his guitars to the frizzled accompainment of his best amp.
I’m reminded of one ambitious earlier rodent who’d gnawed his way into a bag of navy beans and carried close to a hundred of them through some backstairs route to the library to form a map of Spain under the shelves, a distance of at least thirty feet by the shortest route. Why he/she did this, I don’t know.
It’s been a day of weirdness already and I’ve removed three el niño de la tierras (Jerusalem Crickets) where they were wandering the perimeter of the studio, clacking their feet on the cork floor.