Big M little m

Many mumbling mice
are making
midnight music
in the moonlight...

mighty nice

Maybe in your world, Dr. Seuss. But over here at Monkey Hill, they scare the beegees out of J Bo. (cue the Brother's Gibb 'He-he-EH')


Being that I own 3 cats who are indoor/outdoor, they tend to think that the grounds of Monkey Hill are their personal wildlife reserve, complete with game to toy with and prey upon as they fancy. The cats like to show off their skill and prowess by catching vermin then leaving them in most obvious places for their human's viewing pleasure. Their humans are then to praise the cats for keeping the property clean of disease infested city rodents and birds, hoping to find each kill mounted above the mantel, the place of glory. Alas, my cats have been heavy on the nip as I don't praise and I don't mount. Instead, I squeal like a little girl who's just experienced a titty twister by the most foulest of bullies on the playground then runs off to tell her teacher insisting that boy must be expelled.

Sometimes, the vermin my cats catch happen to remain alive once they cross the threshold. This is a little story about such catch.

The other morning, Darian was minding her business in the shower while Scott and I were putzing around in the basement. About 5 minutes into her shower, we heard the most blood curdling scream come out of our child's mouth. Before I could gain my balance to stand, my husband was in the bathroom, ready to avert crisis. Why was she screaming? Because as she was lathering shampoo through her locks, her eyes toward the ceiling, she spied a field mouse sitting upon the shower rod, peering down at her. Scott managed to corner the mouse, trapping it in a large candle votive that I had not yet known where to place in my house. (It is now referred to as the mouse catcher.) He rounded up the cats, taking them and the mouse outside to finish what they started. Outside.

Later that day, after spending hours away from home, we returned to an odorous stench permeating from Darian's room. No, it was not the smell of rotting rodent, instead, one of the dogs- most likely big dog judging from the size of what we found- had a nasty bout of diarrhea and chose Darian's hand made quilt- which she left on the floor!!- as his grassy patch of potty. (Oh, I will get to the dog momentarily; this one's about mice!) We used the opportunity of cleaning up the poo to reorganize Darian's room, getting it ready to move as the baby will be taking over her upstairs room. Darian was working at diligently decluttering while I was in the kitchen preparing a tasty meal when the squeal that Wes Craven needs in his next movie came out of her mouth. Our torti was back with the mouse and this time it's dead body was to be placed at the feet of the cat's human. An eight year old, unsuspecting human. Darian screams, I start screaming, we call Scott- (what can he do- he's at work!!) and then the mouse disappears!!! Our orange tabby decided to move the mouse!

All the while, Darian and I still have not stopped screaming and freaking out, yet I am managing to work on layering my lasagna. (Moms are master multi-taskers!) I happen to look to my left and there is my little dog, Ellie, shaking uncontrollably, tail between the legs, completely unresponsive to my sudden calm voice. I realize that to the dedicated Pomeranian, the screams of his master could only mean that she is being viciously attacked in the dwelling he guards. The split second of calm gone, I look to Darian with tears in my eyes, "My god, the dog is now having a stroke, or a heart attack!!"

But the lasagna...and the dead mouse in the house...and the freaking eight year old...and the need to remain calm else to scare myself into labor!! What do I tackle first? I kill 3 birds with one stone in that I pull Darian close to me, hug her, and pick up the dog and cradle him like a baby with intent of soothing his nerves. He is starting to respond to me and I then lay him down on the living room couch. I dig out some surgical gloves- because every mom has those on hand!- grab a roll of paper towels and a garbage bag, and head into Darian's room to find the mouse. While we had been in the kitchen, our tabby returned the mouse to Darian's room saving me from finding it inside of my shoes, or under my bed covers. He is a smart cat, by the way. I lay 500 paper towels over the mouse and in such a pattern as to only come in contact with 500 paper towels while using the garbage bag as disposing tongs and run it outside to the garbage. Washing my hands 32 times, then finishing my lasagna's cheese mixture, I end this saga with a gallon of cleaner on the floor of Darian's room to rid it of any mouse goo. Lasagne in the oven, timer set, house quiet, and all goodness in the world is now restored.

I rest momentarily on the couch with the dog and realize that all the windows in the house are open so my neighbors must think I really have gone off the deep end and dealt out some savage punishment to my child or pets. (They know how both can work my nerves and recently they have seen cops show up at our home. Just so y'all don't think that CPS or Canine Cops have been on my ass, our home's alarm system went faulty a few weeks ago and had been engaging while we were away. The hot cops at my porch were just courtesy patrol making sure we were all right!) Anyway, my mind just about cleared of the images and ickiness of the mouse, I called my neighbor to assure her that any screams she may have heard had nothing to do with abuse, but to do with a teensy dead mouse.

"J Bo, you mean to tell me that you can deal with all the crap from your little dog, like washing his bottom after he poos, and you can't dispose of a tiny mouse without freaking out?" she questions, as she is laughing uncontrollably. She made a gesture to help me in the future, but with the non stop laughter from her end of the phone, I know that if I call asking for help, she will show up at my door practically passed out from laughing so hard. That's what good neighbors are for: your personal laugh track.

So this past Tuesday, big dog shows us more of his love by turning our living room into a sea of diarrhea at 5am. He'd been relegated to the basement after my husband left for work, when I heard him suddenly crying. Thinking he was sick again, I waddle my way down the stairs to find him and the torti in the bathroom, noses toward the corner toilet. As I ask what is wrong- because you know my dog and my cat can answer me in English- A MOUSE SCURRIES FROM BEHIND THE TOILET AND THE CAT BEGINS THE CHASE.

I have never run up a flight of stairs as fast as I did that morning, slamming the basement door, and placing a towel along the foot of the door. CAUSE EVERYONE KNOWS THAT MICE CANNOT CHEW THROUGH TOWELS.

I have not been presented with the corpse of any mice, yet, but I have my neighbor's number on speed dial and am prepared to be the butt of neighborhood jokes for years to come.

I'LL TAKE JOKES OVER DEAD MICE ANYDAY!!!