It was a dark and stormy night when Pablo the mouse stuck his whiskers past the gnawed edges of his mousehole and surveyed the old wooden dock that jutted out into the harbor. The fishing boats were tied up alongside, as they always were on a dark stormy night, unless one of them didn’t make it home, which had only happened once in Pablo’s lifetime here on the wharf. Pablo’s family had always lived on the docks; they were mostly gone now. Only Pablo remained, and that was because he never went on the boats. There were all kinds of wonderful treats on the boats, he knew, delicious tidbits just waiting for a brave mouse to nibble upon. But Pablo wasn’t a brave mouse. He was an old one.
The rain was coming down in sheets and lightning flashed across the sky. A lantern burned on a post beside the boat belonging to the old Swede, and light poured out of the wheelhouse as well. The Swede’s boat always smelled the best to Pablo. Even when the Mexican deckhands stopped mending the nets to eat it didn’t smell as good as the Swede’s boat. If I were to go on a boat, thought Pablo, I would go on the Swede’s.
Strange sound came from the Swede’s boat, enticing the mouse nearly as much as the smell. He could barely hear it over the wind and the rain, but he liked it. His whiskers poked a bit further out of his hole. He tried to retreat, but the smell made his little pink nose twitch, and his whiskers shook in delight. He edged down the dock towards the old Swede’s boat.
Never had Pablo been so far out on the dock. Before he knew it, he was alongside the old Swede’s boat. A rope held the boat fast to the dock, and the wind whistling thru the masts made the old trawler tug at the line. Pablo looked behind him at his mousehole longingly. He wanted to go back, but he couldn’t. The strange sound drifted past his tiny ears.
He was on the rope now, scurrying across it as quick as a mouse. The boat now, and the fear so strong in him he could barely walk. He skittered towards the wheelhouse, the bright light, the delicious smell, and the strange sound. His whiskers twitched as he poked his head across the threshold.
“Out in the west Texas town of El Paso,” Marty Robbins sang.
The old Swede was having a party. He had been ahead of the storm, ahead of the others, and the bad weather had pushed the fish into his nets by the ton. Some fresh Limburger cheese sat on the table near his hand, his knife stuck in it at an awkward angle. He turned his head and eyed the cautious mouse.
“A brave little mouse,” he said. “Looking for his cheese. God has been fine to me today, my small friend, and your courage delights me. Do you like Marty Robbins?”
The Swede cut a small sliver of cheese with his knife. Pablo’s whiskers twitched. He scampered to and fro, uncertain what might come, but delighted despite himself. The old fisherman tossed it to the mouse.
“I am a great fisherman,” the old Swede said, “but I have no friends, no family. I like you mouse, and if it be to your liking, I invite you to stay with me here on my boat.”
Pablo didn’t understand the words, but he liked the cheese. It was the finest meal he had ever enjoyed. He ate it and sprinted for a small crack in the cupboards of the galley, squirming through it as fast as he could. He poked his nose through the crack, and his whiskers twitched. The old Swede smiled.
“I fell in love with a Mexican girl.”