Earlier this year we saw a mouse in our kitchen. We laid traps for Mickey but he avoided them. We sat out cheese for Speedy Gonzales but he would take the cheese and still avoid the trap. While I wanted him gone, I was also genuinely happy that he wasn’t Ben or Master Splinter. Fievel I could deal with (not really; I still get the heebie jeebies when I think about it and OMG WHAT WAS THAT DID SOMETHING JUST MOVE IN THAT CORNER WE HAVE TO SELL THE HOUSE).
It’s been over a month since my husband finally got it. Thankfully he had the determination and patience to lie in wait, standing still in the kitchen, probably covered in green paint and a bush (or a camouflage hat like Carl Spackler. No, I don’t know why I remember his name. My mind is filled with seemingly useless trivia that’ll never be asked on Jeopardy). Since The Great Mouse Capture For Which We Are All Indebted to Daddy, though, I have not regained my ability to simply stroll into the kitchen in the middle of the night for, well, anything, let alone stand there and actually prepare something before a) the sun is up and/or b) kicking cabinets to make noise to let what I believe is the remaining 8 mice know I’m there.
I have convinced myself that there are more. Jerry’s in there and I have no Tom. Pinky is in there and Brain is with him. Hell, the revamped Chuck E. Cheese might be hiding behind the fridge waiting to serve me bad pizza the way my imagination is working. The first time I saw it run along the baseboard then under the stove I ran upstairs and stayed until the children threatened to dial 911 or worse, food delivery.
But how was I expected to cook in a kitchen that Mighty Mouse was also in? It got bad for a while. The only time I was semi-comfortable in my own kitchen was dinnertime, because that was the one time of day it hadn’t been spotted. And I just looked to my right because I was sure something just moved. And I’m hearing squeaks. Sure, it’s probably the dryer because it’s old or the house because it’s old or the tree branch scraping the window. But, those are all logical explanations. I hear/see nothing but mouse. Licking my clean plates, pooping on my counter, trying to eat through my boxes of pasta. I truly think if a mouse ran out of that kitchen right now I’d have a heart attack and die and no one would know because I wouldn’t have finished this blog post and this old ass laptop wouldn’t have saved anything past the picture of Fievel.
But, in the spirit of positivity, the mouse has been caught! There is no more mouse. And then my mind immediately says riiiiiiiiiiight. There’s no more THAT mouse. The others are just biding their time before they come out collectively, from intricately designed tunnels, pin me to the ground, tie me down, and nibble my toes and earlobes. What? Danger Mouse was no fool. His code name had a code name.