A Mouse in the House

A few months ago, SuperHubby went off and left me to my own devices. The boys and I shopped til we dropped, not buying anything but thoroughly enjoying ourselves. We had a great day. We came home, tired as dogs, flopped on the sofa to watch a bad TNT movie, and ordered pizza. We had a picnic in the den. Then life as we knew it ceased to exist.

Spanky and I went to the kitchen to dispose of our trash. Upon opening the cabinet door to pitch our garbage, I noticed a small, gray rodent sitting atop my trash can. I said, quite calmly, what any normal person would say: "Oh my goodness, Spank, it's a mouse." Once the words registered in my brain, I did the next thing any normal person would do: I ran from the room.

The evening after that becomes a blur. I know I made a lot of phone calls. I'm not sure how I thought that would help, but that was my first choice: reach out and touch someone. At some point I got my mother-in-law on the phone. She was a bit calmer, probably because she was 15 miles away from the gray icky thing that was now making its way across my kitchen floor. She suggested I let the dogs after the mouse.

I learned a valuable lesson right then: our dogs are stupid. Layla went and took a nap. That seems to be how she handles everything. Kane was a little better, after I showed him where the mouse was. He chased it around the kitchen for a long time. Meanwhile, I did what any normal person would do: I took pictures (I knew SuperHubby wouldn't believe me; I needed proof).

Life was okay for a brief moment in time. At this point, Spanky had left the house and was waiting patiently in the car. In the driveway. FrogBoy and I were in the house. I had to keep an eye on the mouse. Unfortunately, Kane felt compelled to play with this thing in the most inhumane way. He would pick it up in his big Boxer mouth, slobber all over it until it was stunned into a semi-comatose state, drop it, kick it until it woke up and tried to run, then start the process all over. I began to feel sorry for the mouse. Sort of.

Then Kane did the most dreadful thing. He brought it to me. I'm not sure how to describe what happened next. I know FrogBoy and I reached new levels of panic. The noises coming from our mouths were incredible. The only picture I can give is me, Helga the Hysterical Hippopatomus, trying to grab my child while running from the dog, with only a mouse tail visible from the corner of his mouth.

I ran to my room and shut the door. I had some problems. I'd been ready for bed. I was wearing grungy shorts, a nasty tee shirt and no shoes. FrogBoy was in his underwear. We're a casual family. Meanwhile, Spanky's still in the car, and I'm such a basket case that FrogBoy is calling to him for help. I quickly thought of all my friends and hoped someone would come to my rescue. Then I realized...it was Saturday night, and they were all where I should have been - at church. It was up to me.

I grabbed my baby, my new Vera Bradley purse, my cell phone and my new digital camera. Priorities. I faked the dog out and ran through Spanky's room, out the garage and to the car. Now there were 3 half-dressed people in the driveway, waiting for goodness know's what. I called my uncle.

My uncle and aunt live about 45 minutes away. It was late. I asked if we could come live with them. Forever. Oddly enough, they weren't interested. I asked if we could come out to their house. They offered to come to my house. I readily accepted.

An hour later, my troubles were over. A very wet, very dead, much smaller mouse was removed from my house. (I would like to point out that I went back inside after he expired and covered him with a trashcan, so the dog wouldn't chow down). We determined later that he was probably drunk on antifreeze, which would explain his poor decision-making that particular evening.

My family has laughed about this for months now. But I learned a valuable lesson. Never take off your clothes until you're really ready for bed.