Family Daze: Consider this: Of Mice and (Wo)men

I know you might think it’s silly for a woman who went through natural childbirth twice to be scared of a harmless little mouse — but I, like most people in the current century, prefer my rodents outside.

It was only yesterday that I was downstairs in the living room, innocently minding my own business folding laundry, when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow gallop across the floor.

I did what any educated, independent woman would do: I yelled "Yeeeeeekkkkk!" Then I ran upstairs and locked myself into my office.

When my husband came home from work, I casually explained to him how I wouldn’t normally be afraid of something so harmless, and the reason I’m sitting on top of my desk is because this particular mouse is part of an unusually large species that looks more like small Chihuahuas.

"Well, where is it?" he asked.

"I have no idea," I said. "For all I know he could be in the kitchen, underneath the refrigerator, or in my closet trying on shoes," I said dryly.

"Just get him!"

An hour later he walked back into my office.

"You can come out now," he announced triumphantly. "He’s gone."

"Great! Did you dispose of the b-o-d-y?" I whispered. When he didn’t answer, I became suspicious. "You didn’t find it, did you?"

He slowly shook his head. "But since I didn’t see it, it’s obviously gone."

Now you might think I’m being overly cynical here, but I wasn’t convinced.

This theory might’ve worked if he had been looking for something a little bigger like, say, an elephant, but it was clear to me that this mouse was obviously lying low, waiting for another chance to strike. Why, at this very moment, it was probably lurking under the kitchen table waiting for me to open the refrigerator so it could charge over my feet and eat up all of the expensive cheese. Or sleeping underneath my comforter. Or, for goshsakes, living in my closet making a nest inside my good pumps.

So I weighed my alternatives and figured I could either (a) move, (b) hire a professional exterminator, or (c) remain locked in my office until the mouse eventually got bored and wandered away of its own accord.

I finally decided on a less complicated plan that consisted of searching every corner of the house with a flashlight, then trying to scare it to death by waving my hands around and screaming. So I pulled myself together and looked in every closet and underneath every piece of furniture trying to determine if the mouse was there, had been there, or could possibly show up there at any moment. Then, when I was about to give up and think that maybe, just maybe, my husband was right, I saw a mouse-shaped shadow dart across the floor.

I immediately sprung into action, and by action I mean running for my life.

And just when I was ready to put my house up for sale and live in a hotel until the real-estate market picked up, my friend Julie suggested getting one of those "humane" mouse traps that is really more like a plastic box with clear sides and a door.

According to the directions all I would need to do is lure the mouse into the container, then drive it to a nice empty field and release it back into nature. I pictured myself bravely watching as the mouse ran off into the distance, just like the woman in the heart-wrenching scene in Born Free after she releases the lion she raised into the jungle to fend for itself.

So I bought the humane trap, confident it was the only good and decent thing to do.

The next morning I was still confident about my decision — until I was faced with the actual possibility of having to drive around the neighborhood looking for a field, with a mad mouse trapped inside a flimsy plastic box, seat-belted into the front seat of my car. Now, I am not a religious person, but as I walked down the stairs to check the box I silently prayed, "Dear God, I promise I’ll do better. I’ll be more kind and patient toward others. I’ll donate more money to charity and even make both of my children’s birthday cakes from scratch, but please, please don’t let there be a live mouse in that box. Amen."

As I bent down and peered into the box I imagined seeing a vindictive ten pound mouse, with beady eyes and sharp teeth, glaring at me if it were trying to decide whether it should wait until I let it loose to tear me to shreds — or to just go ahead open the box itself and get it over with quickly.

So, when I saw that it was empty I felt like throwing my hands out to my sides and bursting into song. However, it also meant that the mouse was still loose somewhere in my house.

But, between you and me, I think I can learn to live with it.

Debbie Farmer is a humorist and mother who lives in California.

Readers can reach Debbie at [email protected],

or at Debbie Farmer, c/o Oasis Newsfeatures, P.O. Box 2144,

Middletown, Ohio 45042.