Maybe it’s because of the elections, or the hurricane coverage, or hormones, or who knows what, but I’m sort of lacking in profound, important, deeply spiritual posts of late. This week’s a2z post is about a mouse.
Not THIS particular mouse:
Unlike many other members of my gender, I do not find mice terrifying. I’ve even had them as pets, and for the most part, I think they’re cute.
NOTE: The mice we have aren’t those miniature rats commonly known as “house mice.” These mice are “field mice” that have painstakingly traversed their way to the warmth and abundant food of my house as the nights grow cold and foraging becomes more challenging. (I’ve wondered if there’s a tiny neon sign with an arrow that reads “EATS” out in the field around my abode. This house has been known to have serious infestations of Mus Musculus.) These are the mice Beatrix Potter wrote about, with their big ears and eyes, long whiskers, and tidy little white tummies they are meticulous about cleaning.
(Give it up, they’re cute, whether you like mice or not.)
EXCEPT when they’re hiding in a drawer full of kitchen utensils (or in the dog food bag, or in a package of crackers in the pantry.) Then those tiny, fragile animals suddenly possess the power to make me shriek, squeal, and do one of those impromptu Ninja-meets-tap-dancer jigs that accompany being startled by snakes, spiders, rodents, and other stealthy creatures.
And that’s how my morning started on Friday. I opened a drawer in the kitchen in search of a utensil, only to find myself face to face with a wayward mouse. I’m sure our panicked expressions mirrored each other. I squeaked, the mouse squeaked, I slammed the drawer shut, and the mouse disappeared.
Knowing from experience that the old adage about mice (if you’ve seen one you’ve got a hundred) is true, I bought a trap on Saturday. A live trap, because I hate disposing of their little broken bodies and would rather haul them to the barn and let them fend for themselves with the barn cats. I baited the trap with peanut butter and placed it, according to instructions, under the sink, where I presume Drawer Mouse entered my home. Thus far, the trap remains empty.
This morning I awoke to the sound of little scurrying feet in the ceiling over my bed. Mouse feet. Darn it. He (or she) has brought in reinforcements.
And so, the battle begins.