I swore I was not going to write this blog. I was not going to. Nope. It was not going to happen. Because I am not going to admit *this* awful thing to anyone. In fact, I want to find a corner, rock back and forth, chanting to myself, hoping to find a Zen state and never tell a soul what has happened. No one should ever know this ugly truth. No one.
But blast it all, my blog is due NOW, and… Well, I can’t think of anything else to write. Because this ugliness is all I can think about at the moment. Which is just awful. AWFUL, I tell you!
I suppose I should start off with admitting that I am a complete girl. There’s no shame in that. I like to wear dresses and high heels, have my nails done and be completely pampered on a fairly regular basis. Being a girl is nice most of the time. That doesn’t mean I’m weak. In fact, a lot of you know I have a reputation for being tough as nails. There’s not a *person* alive that I won’t take on and hold my own against in a verbal interaction (I’m not so much into the physical, which isn’t really an issue. I can usually do all the necessary damage with my acerbic tongue, but I digress.)
Where was I?
Yes - there’s not a PERSON I can’t handle. Creepy crawly things… spiders, snakes, insects, rodents… That’s a completely different situation. I don’t care how big, what color or what genus they belong to. I don’t like creepy crawly things, and there are no exceptions. You brave people out there may think I’m crazy, but I don’t much care what you think about the situation. I don’t like them. Not at all. Here’s why:
(1) They make me jump on couches, chairs, or low hanging branches and scream like the girl that I am.
(2) My natural defense doesn’t work against them. They don’t much care how acerbic my tongue can be. I can tell those things off all day and all night, they’re still going to beat me in the end, because they don’t understand my wit and they don’t speak English.
Now that all of that is out of the way… Two weeks ago, my twelve year old cat who has spent most of her dozen years chasing rabbits and birds, left a dead mouse at the bottom of my staircase. She has never *NEVER* in the dozen years she has lived with me ever caught a mouse. In fact, it has been a point of contention between her and I over the years.
Once I spotted a field mouse climbing the brick on the outside of my house. My cat was right beneath it, just watching. Not shaking her tail end, ready to pounce or toy with the thing… just watching the blasted mouse with no desire to do anything else. Lazy, good for nothing cat. I had to kill the mouse myself with the business end of a shovel as I – yes – screamed like a girl.
Anyway, I was more than shocked that she’d killed an actual mouse, and I prayed she’d brought the thing in through the dog door from outside. I didn’t want to even consider that I had one of those things living in my house. I still don’t want to consider that possibility. And if you make me do so, you’ll have to institutionalize me. That possibility is not on the table.
So yesterday, I headed home for lunch in the middle of the day since my son’s summer program this week allowed for a midday break, and it was an opportunity for me to spend a little bit of time with him during the day. It also afforded me the opportunity to throw in a load of laundry in the middle of the afternoon and get a jump on my weekend chores. After lunch with my son, I went to collect a towel I’d left on my bed that morning to throw into the wash.
And do you know what I found…? Yes, my heart rate has just gone through the roof at the mere memory.
A dead mouse placed beside the tv remote on top of my comforter. A freakin’ dead mouse! A dead MOUSE on my freakin’ bed! Why is the cat doing this to me? Twelve years of no mice and now two in as many weeks?!?!
I did have an honest to goodness panic attack. I hyperventilated and it took me a good while to actually catch my breath. I would say you should have heard me, but you wouldn’t have been able to understand a word that came out of my mouth. My voice was so high, I sounded like Minnie Mouse on helium. And – no – that irony is not lost on me.
So I have an exterminator coming first thing this morning because I couldn’t bribe or pay him enough to come out yesterday. Stinkin’ moral exterminator! And I am praying that he will tell me that my cat has become sadistic, that there is no community of mice who have take up residence in my walls and that she is plotting my downfall by bringing these loathsome creatures into my house and leaving them for me to find in the hopes that I’ll have a heart attack and she can take over my place as head of the household. But if the opposite is true, if I have *gasp* actual mice under my roof… You may never hear from me again.
I don’t think I’ll be able to handle that. I will lose my mind and be placed in a sanitarium somewhere. I cannot have mice. I simply cannot. That is unacceptable.
But if my cat has become sadistic after a dozen years, what am I going to do with her? We can’t go on like this. We just simply cannot.
I don’t know if I feel better having written all of this out or not. And if any of you breathe a word of this horror to anyone… I’ll hunt you down and let you experience my acerbic tongue for yourself, which is quite frightful, I’ll have you know.
So now that the threats are out of the way… Have any of you ever had critter stories you’re willing to share? Misery, after all, loves company.