Patches sat diligently watching the spot in the snow beneath the running board of a truck that was at least as old as the hills, and twice as rough too. It was of vintage descent, a 1947 Ford; but now, a mere specter, it sat, shelter to the rodents of Mrs. White's farm.

The black and white tom's nose caught the pungent odor of the little gray minions that occupied the rust-bucket, and the cat held fast his position, waiting ... barely blinking an eye. Patience was his strong suit, his ability to sit motionless for hours was unparalleled and he would stay a statue as long as it took. Barely a whisker twitched as the snow came down. Patches liked the cold flakes, an outdoor cat born and raised, he was a mousing machine without peer ... a killer elite in feline disguise.


"Patches!" There--the familiar call for supper in a can. The cat ignored it. The smorgasbord in front of him was flesh and blood. He had a job to do.

"Patches! Kitty, kitty! Come in, Patch!" This time, the door opened further and a red house shoe appeared in the corner of his eye. He held his position. More fat flakes landed on his nose, cold and wet, they began to accumulate quickly now. Patches didn't care. There were mice to be had.

"Patches! Get in here, you old fool! It's snowing and you're getting wet! Kitty! Come on in, just for tonight?" The house shoe disappeared back inside. Patches breathed. He didn't want his mistress to frighten the mice away.

A tiny pink nose appeared, wriggling suspiciously as the whiskers scanned around like radar and Patches tensed. He held his breath again, saliva began to build in his mouth and drool formed around his teeth ... he didn't dare move, or gulp.

But the mouse had seen the cat. It darted to safety, squeaking a warning to the tiny clan, who all scrabbled and clambered into the underbelly of the seat. They huddled and conferred as to how they would get out to gather birdseed and remnants of the trash that the human set out every Monday of every week. Hunger gnawed at the bellies of the mice and they crept back to the little hole that was their front door. They waited. It was a Mexican stand-off. Cat versus mouse. Whoever had the most where-with-all would be the victor, and old man winter was the referee.

Snowflakes, fat and wet, slapped down, quickly covering the old Ford. And the cat. Patches now sat in a melted spot, surrounded by four inches of fresh snow. A breeze kicked up, its whistle telling the cat in no uncertain terms, that it would soon be too cold to sit in the same spot without freezing there, like an ice sculpture or a cement statue. A cardinal sang one last tune and disappeared into the high branches of the fir tree, where it would snooze with one eye open in case the old cat decided to make an attempt at a raid.


Off in the distance, voices could be heard. The farm was on the edge of a tiny town out in the middle of nowhere, and it had the highest hill around. Mrs. White never said a word when the kids came to slip, slide and sled. And Patches, not wanting to be noticed by children, stuck his nose up to the hole one last time, daring the mouse family to emerge, before he gave up and went inside for dinner. His tiny nemesis' had won this time. This time. But tomorrow would be another day. Another stand-off between predator and prey, another day like countless other days on the farm ... where life could be a struggle, and death a certainty.

The children finally got tired and went home, their laughter fading as they yelled "Thank you, Mrs. White", and she stood, with the old cat at her feet; her wave and porch light a sign of "you're welcome".

And as the December dusk silenced the evening, Patches went back out to go sleep in the barn--while the blanket of snow hushed the world good-night.