Mr. Mouse

I’m sitting cross-legged on my couch at 1 am in the morning – on a work night. Granted the 90% humidity and me being stubborn about putting AC in isn’t helping right now, but the big reason is because of a stupid mouse. I get pulled out of my night sleep by this squeaking. It’s a few squeaks here and then a few more. Sounds like that toy mouse I got the boys awhile back that was a mouse with a battery operated squeak in it. Only it drove me nuts at night so I grabbed it and stuffed it in a drawer. And recently I found it again – or rather Winston did and it finally made its way into the trash. Which means this isn’t that toy mouse making those noises. I jump up and slap on the lights to find Walter following closely his big brother into the living room. And the squeaks continue. As I turn on my lights I notice Winston has something in his mouth. I say his name sternly a few times and down goes the toy mouse in his mouth. Except when it gets dropped on the floor it’s flipping like a gold fish. How the hell do I have a squeaking gold fish in my house? And then it flips and runs a bit before Winston grabs it again. Crap, I saw enough (and heard enough) that it’s a mouse – in agony of being a toy to this big monster of a cat.

I flip on my porch lights, I guess thinking, if I can’t grab the mouse, I’d at least move Winston with the mouse in his mouth into the stairwell – closer to the outside. At which point Winston drops him again, to get a better grip or who knows what and I see my chance. I grab they boy by the scruff and his neck. And a split second later grab his brother by the scruff of his neck too as he sees his chance to move in on this awesome new toy. I instinctively throw them into my bedroom a few feet away and close the glass door.
They’re now looking out the door as I hold it shut (it doesn’t stay latched properly) watching in agony as their mother botches the whole thing and the mouse runs a way. I hear a last squeak here and there around the corner while I hold the bedroom door. A moment later I let go and step back into the living room – barefoot, to see what I can do about helping the little guy outside. And he’s gone. No sign of him. It’s like I imagined the whole thing. I bravely get down on my hands and knees to see if I can see the little guy hunkered in some corner. Nope, he’s gone.

How the hell do I have a mouse? I live on the second floor. This is ridiculous. And a moment later, as I’m scanning the living room, and my glance rests on the large pile of boxes in the corner, do I finally realize what happened. The mouse is from Vermont. I brought the boxes back from my dad’s last week. The boxes were in the basement. The basement I helped clean out and organize – the extra family furniture and boxes of old family silver and stuff. I brought these boxes home to take inventory and pack up properly and then return. And apparently the “and stuff” includes a mouse. I then I realize it might be plural – mice. We did find some mice droppings in amongst the furniture. Crap.

So now, I’m stuck with a mouse in the house. On the second floor. In a fairly small house. With two cats who think he’s a toy. And will play with him until he keels over in terror. I’ve gone through this before – with these very same cats. I had mice when I owned my place in Michigan. I managed to rescue each one and release them outside. This time, I now get to go back to bed knowing there’s a mouse scampering around. He’s already adjusting things for me. Since I was up I took a leak and may I saw it’s a little challenging with your feet up in the air – he could’ve run into the bathroom when I wasn’t looking and was hiding in the dark corner behind the toilet, my mind thought and my feet reacted.

Actually, I’m fine with the mouse in the house. It’s more what the boys will do to him while I’m gone – play within him, which keep in mind is play for them and torture for the little guy. They’re domestic indoor only cats. They don’t hunt the mouse and snap its little neck immediately upon catching him. Plus that last thing I want to pick up after my boys, and I’ve picked a lot of gross stuff up after them, is a disemboweled little mouse.

Well, I stayed up for a little while now, hoping I might see the guy scamper across the room and I can snag him and close this chapter. But no luck. I’m kept company at the moment by the boys lounging on the floor after doing a sweep of the house and not finding him. So to sleep, with one eye open, and waiting for what’s next. I just hope he doesn’t get into my pantry of food, crawl off into the wall or some other hard place to reach and die, and then rot and stink up my place. And please, please, please let there only be one mouse that was in the boxes and that there aren’t any more in my house, or for that matter, my car where they were for hours – even overnight since I loaded up my car as we went along, cleaning out the basement.