Mather should have known better.

He trusted Mouse, deferred to his superior intellect even, but today this would prove a mistake. For Mouse did not have Mather’s best interests at heart, but rather his own. Mouse, you see, decided he was ready to settle down; settle down with a Mrs. Mouse. Perhaps father five, even ten, litters of pups before middle age with the less than attractive white muzzle and paunch like Mather had, the latter proclaiming he was carrying pups himself. Who would want him then? No, it was time.

But Mouse needed a dowry. He had nothing. Mather gave him whatever he needed, but Mather had no money. Not enough anyway. Not for what Mouse had in mind.

As Mather waits at a crosswalk, Mouse stands, places a paw on each side of Mather’s ear, and tells Mather what he’s planned.

“Eh, what’s that?”

Mouse repeats himself.

“Are you sure?”

Mouse tells Mather that he is. Mather thinks for a moment, but just a moment, before turning to right toward 5th and 82nd and the Metropolitan Museum of Art.