The Thanksgiving Guest

by Karin Elizabeth Clift

‘Twas Thanksgiving Day and all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
“Too quiet for me”, Batgirl said with a smile,
“I think I’ll go play in the forest awhile.”
So out dashed the Batgirl, and Skeeter, and Robin,
And next trotted Oafman, and Princess, and Clemon.

Bruce and Karin, meanwhile, were snug in their bed,
While visions of parenthood danced in their heads.
They were waking up slowly and discussing their plans,
For football and feasting and just holding hands.
When all of the sudden there rose such a clatter
They jumped from their bed to see what was the matter!
As they searched for the reason it quickly was clear
That Batgirl had brought us a guest, full of fear!
We barely had lifted our heads from our pillows
When what should we see but The Wind in the Willows!

Mr. Mole had been brought by Batgirl with pride,
His worst trip since Toad and his crazy Wild Ride!
“Really,” he said as he straightened his suit,
“I must protest this uncivilized brute!
No Thanksgiving invite was sent to my flat.
I’m expected at Toad Hall with Badger and Rat.”

Flustered, abashed we chastised the Bat
And explained to the mole, “She’s an excitable cat.
We are so sorry for your inconvenience,
Won’t you please stay, have Thanksgiving with us?”
Mr. Mole squinted hard, as his eyesight was poor,
And he sized up the place from ceiling to floor.
“I’ll stay for a bit, don’t mind if I do,
When’s dinner served and where is the loo?”

Now Mole was settled in a box full of earth
And he squealed and he tunneled with the greatest of mirth.
He tunneled and squealed for all he was worth,
And Bruce lit a blaze in the fireside hearth.
Soon dinner was cooking and Bruce was quite busy,
And Karin, at twelve weeks, sat down feeling dizzy.
They despaired that their guest would feel rather neglected,
But any lack of attention, the six cats soon corrected.

Six cats gathered 'round Mr. Mole in his lair.
Six cats watched his movements with unblinking stares.
Such good little hosts, so attentive and willing,
Mole’s chatter and digging, they seemed to find thrilling.

The house filled with smells both lovely and tempting.
Then dinner was served, the mole floor show preempting.
Oh! What a feast! And Oh! What a sight!
Was set before Mole at the table that night!
Potatoes and stuffing and gravy and green beans,
And celery stalks filled with walnuts and cream cheese.
There was pumpkin pie, ice cream, and rolls by the dozen.
There was food for an army plus several cousins.

Imagine our shock when our snouty guest said,
“This is NOT mole food!”, his face turning red.
“I am a Shrew Mole, Neurotrichus gibbsii.
(If you can rhyme that, you’re a better mole than I!)
We moles don’t eat stuffing, potatoes, or yams,
Or pie, or ice cream, or green eggs and ham!
There is only one thing for our delicate palates:
That’s worms, worms, worms, worms, NOT turkey with shallots!
Yes, worms of all sizes, genera, and species.
Naught warms the soul like a plate of worm beasties.
Brown ones, and fuschias, and turquiosey-blueses,
Green ones, and pink ones, and pucey-chartreuses.
Fat ones and thin ones, the squirmier the better,
Those that are dry, and those juicy and wetter.
So bring on the worms and please hurry up.
I feel rather faint, and soon I must sup.”

At last Mole had finished his worm diatribe,
And Karin, with shovel, scurried outside.
She dug in the dirt round the flowers and weeds.
She dug and she searched with the utmost of speed.
After much effort, by the sweat of her brow,
She’d a dozen fat worms cradled neat in her trowel.
To Mole were presented these worms with great pride.
They wiggled and squiggled right there by his side.
With unrestrained glee, Mr. Mole he dug in.
He sucked and he chomped from one end to one end.
Ne’er did we see food devoured so fast;
Mr Mole, have no doubt, relished great his repast.
He ate and he ate hardly taking a breath
‘Till all worms had met with a digestive death.

Now Mole was quite happy and jolly and sated,
Our Thanksgiving successful, and very high-rated.
A little while later, Mole yawned and he said,
“I fear it is time to go home to my bed.”
We escorted him out with a tear in our eye.
The kitties especially hated saying goodbye.
We watched from the deck as he strode out of sight,
Squeaking “Happy Thanksgiving to all and to all a Good Night!”

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