Published Wednesday, November 25, 2009 10:41 AM
Updated Wednesday, November 25, 2009 10:42 AM
What is it about a creature half the size and weight of a Brillo pad that makes grown adults just wig hysterically?
I’m talking, of course, about mice. Forget all that stuff about Hanta virus and Bubonic Plague. Be it Mickey, Minnie, Mighty, or Malcom, the Little Kid dressed in ears, whiskers, and a tail panhandling candy at the front door on Halloween night, just seeing a mouse can give me a profound and violently acute case of the Willies.
This summer, I was minding my own business out in my garage. Can’t remember exactly what I was doing, but it probably involved sitting on the couch with a cold beverage and music playing. Suddenly, something flickered from the corner of my eye. My hackles rose. Next thing I knew, a little four legged, long-tailed fellow was skittering silently across my bare foot.
While I believe my sense of general manliness and studliness sufficiently prevented me from doing more than raising an eyebrow, my neighbors said later they thought an axe murderer had cornered an opera diva in our garage.
I think that’s what bugs me. Mice make no sound – it’s like they’re floating along the ground – and they move so fast. Chances are, when you see one, it’s more of an after-the-fact image, much like seeing something in the dark that might have been a ghost.
The other day, the ghost found its way into our guest bedroom. The worst part was we brought it into the house ourselves.
To be fair, we were trying to figure out what to do with a family artifact that has been rolled up behind the couch in the garage for more than a year: a 9.5’x12’ Oriental rug. For some reason, we thought it might work in the guest bedroom, give the room a little color pop.
Color pop? Can you say, “Too much HGTV, Jim?”
Anyway, my Beloved and I hefted the darn thing out of the garage and wrassled it upstairs. Then, with painstaking care, we maneuvered it against one wall and I lifted the bed so she could unroll the carpet without us having to take the bed apart.
I was in a squatting position, the bed lifted up on its side, when our little friend decided to make an appearance. Apparently, he had been hiding in the recesses of the rug. Even had a condo there.
Needless to say, when he leaped, so did I. High in the air. So did my Beloved.
Our dogs, both herding dogs from way back, heard all the pandemonium and decided the suburban life of chasing tennis balls and lounging in the sun was a better deal.
And the neighbors again wondered if an axe murdered had cornered an Opera Diva, this time in our upstairs bedroom.
Fortunately, the story has a happy ending. Not only do neither of us have hernias or permanent nervous tics, but I caught our little friend in a shoe box and let him go at the edge of some nearby woods.
So anybody want to buy an Oriental rug? Hey, where did everybody go?