The Disgusting Incident of the Mouse in the Nighttime

*Now edited for tv tag action! See below*


So, a mere 5 days ago, I’m reading the lovely Sunshine Scribe’s post about her unwanted houseguest, and, ha ha, look at me, leaving witty comments about charging rent, blah blah, glad it’s not me –

It’s me.

This morning, around 3:45, I was awakened by the sound of my cat going on an early-morning rampage with what I can only assume is a hair clip left somewhere to be batted to the floor, or perhaps something crinkly surreptitiously pilfered from the wastepaper basket in the bathroom – right?

Wrong, wrong, wrong, ew, ew, ew – wrong!

I immediately knew the gruesome truth of the situation. I freakin knew it wasn’t anything as light and airy as a kleenex or a hair clip – just look at the way she’s putting her weight behind pushing it around. And even in this bleary, hardly-awake state and the grayish light, I can see that she is watching her ‘toy’ – waiting for it. Waiting for it to what? Waiting for it to leave. And – is that a TAIL?

This is when I wake Chris. No way I should have to go through this inevitable discovery by myself. ‘Chris!’ I whisper, reaching across Bumblebee to give him a shake, ‘Wake up!’

‘Huh?’ Is that a bit of drool in the corner of his mouth? Never mind that – the cat! The cat!

‘Chris, Miko has a freakin’ mouse!’ He’s up.

‘What?’

‘She has a mouse! I know it – she’s got a freakin mouse! Ew ew ew!’ I shudder, and sit up. So does Chris. ‘Ok’ he says, ‘I’m going to turn on the lamp –‘

The cat freakin jumps up onto the freakin bed. Toy in mouth. Toy on bed.

‘Turn on the light! Turn on the light!’

But of course, I don’t really want the light turned on. Because turning on the light will, literally, illuminate the truth of the situation, which is –

There is a dead freakin mouse on our bed.

In one swoop, bumblebee is out of the bed, in my arms, and I am dancing like I am on hot coals, one foot then the other, punctuating each move with a steady stream of ‘Ew ew ew ew ew ew ew,’ and looking from the freakin mouse, to Chris, to the cat, who is looking at us like she is very proud of herself, indeed.

Bumblebee is in exceptionally good spirits, considering I have whisked her out of her cozy sleep, and she is currently waving to her father and saying ‘Bye. Bye. Bye,’ obviously figuring that we are on our way somewhere. And we are – out of the rodent death chamber that my bedroom has become.

But not so fast.

‘Uh, I’ll take her,’ Chris informs me, scooping our baby out of my arms, ‘I don’t do mice, remember?’

Crap. He doesn’t. We made that deal after a particularly harrowing incident involving a carpenter ant. (Shut up. They’re scary.) I think it was in our vows – he’ll kill my bugs, but I handle mice and birds. At the time I thought it was a good deal, seeing as bugs can be so prolific. But it’s not. It’s not a good deal, because bugs are prolific, but birds and mice are diseased and gross and traumatic. Gross. And. Traumatic.

So anyway, you bet I’m wondering why I ever sold my soul for this deal when I am faced with a stiff little dead mouse on my top sheet, and my big, strong, virile farm-boy husband is halfway down the stairs with the baby.

Coward! Ok, what to do, what to do?

The mouse is at the foot of the bed, paws up, like he’s begging for something (uh, like his life, maybe?), big bite in his belly, but mercifully, no insides outside of anything. I fold the sheet up over him, dignified like, and then fold the sides over, so that I have a little dead mouse pouch. I carry him quickly down the stairs.

Where am I going? Where should I put him? We assess the possibilities.

Backyard? No way. Front yard? No! Big garbage pail at the side of the house? No – target receptacle opening is too small and I will not risk him falling on the ground. I am not, not, not picking him up. Green bin? Well, normally I do compost my organic waste, but that opening is even smaller. Schoolyard across the road? No! I don’t want a child to find him and be freaked out, or worse, start poking him with a stick. No. I know! The little overgrown grassy space between the fence and the school parking lot. The parking lot slopes down to the fence, so nobody, not even dogs go there.

I start across the road, which is peaceful and quiet and actually quite warm for 3:30 in the morning. I feel like I am dumping a body, which I guess I am. I wonder how many insomniac neighbours I have, and if any of them are watching me, ready to call crimestoppers and report erratic behaviour involving a bed sheet and a girl in her husband’s t-shirt and clogs. They will say I was acting funny; twitching. I was. Ew, ew, ew, ew.

There, it’s done. I rush back across the road, dump the sheet on the lawn and head into the house, straight for the sink. Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew. After washing my hands thoroughly, I take bumblebee. ‘I might do mice, but I don’t do dead mice bed sheets,’ I tell Chris, and leave him to retrieve the evidence from the front lawn.

Miko is watching us, expectantly. What is she expecting? A reward? Well, yes, in fact. She is a cat. She is a hunter. She has hunted, and left her kill for us because she loves us and wants to please us. She gets treats. Because the funny thing is, my cat is so not that cat.
She doesn’t hunt! She hisses, at just about everyone, but she is so lazy she’ll barely jump up onto the couch. So actually, we’re quite pleased that since we had a mouse – no way around that part – she caught it. And killed it. Hooray for our fat lazy cat!

Fine. It’s over. Bumblebee shows no signs of wanting to go back to sleep, but at least the sheets are changed, the hands are washed and the mouse is gone. But I’m ready to make a new deal. Like, fine, I might do mice, but I don’t do dishes. Or, hey Chris, you don’t have to do mice, but you do have to play with my hair for ½ an hour 3 times a week.

Fair is fair. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go bathe in lysol.


***
Metro Mama tagged me for the most funnest tv meme ever! (see what all that tv does to a girl's grammar?)

So, here are the best characters according to me, as seen on tv:

1. Nellie Olsen – forget Laura; Nellie is the shiznit. I even thought Percival was cool.
2. Ruth Fisher – the best post-menopausal woman ever written.
3. Natalie Green – even at half-wattage, Natalie ruled.
4. Rachel Greene – forget about the first 2 seasons – once she hit her stride, there was no stopping her.
5. Johnny Gage & Roy DeSoto – my very first mcdreamys.
6. Christina Yang – perfectly flawed. I love her.
7. Karen Walker – absolutely no better timing on tv. Show should have been called Jack & Karen.
8. Al Swearengen – a filthier-mouthed poet there never,ever was.
9. Seth Cohen – oh, how I love you, Cohen.
10. Zan & Jayna – shape of an ice cube! Form of a martini glass!

I am tagging everyone that reads this - it's fun, and we all need more fun in our blogs.