“Maybe it’s a raisin.”
“It’s definitely NOT a raisin” I assured my oldest son Drew as we examined the scattered particles on the kitchen counter.
It chilled me to the bone but I knew …. my house had rats.
Okay. Maybe not rats. But mice, for sure.
Probably infested with hundreds and hundreds of toothy, pointy nosed, bulgy eyed, pot bellied rodents living within the walls of what was once my beloved home!
What else could I conclude after this alarming early morning discovery of droppings next to the toaster oven?
“Mom, are you sure they aren’t crumbs?”
I wish.
My fear of mice is not a girly “yuck, I don’t like them”. It’s a full blown, get me to a shrinks couch, phobia.
Brownie the Rat-Faced Gerbil from my kindergarten class came home to spend the 1971 Christmas holiday season with us. It immediately escaped from its cage and stalked and tortured me for two weeks. It ran out of closets, jumped from dresser drawers and crawled out of shoes. Blah! I’ve never been the same since.
I picked up the boys after school and took them out for dinner and a Wal-Mart run. I couldn’t go in that rat-trap house! Mickey D was out of town as he always seemed to be during times of great crisis.
Finally, reluctantly, we headed home. I dashed to a tall stool so I could pull my legs up. When MD called, I relayed the news of the droppings and frantically explained that we were under mice invasion.
“How can this be?? I only left yesterday!”
He instructed Drew to go downstairs and get one of those plug in do-dads that supposedly sends out a high pitched screech which is offensive to mice and yet inaudible to the human ear. I’m sure it comes with a voucher for swamp land in
“I can’t go down to get it.” Drew reports from the top landing.
“There’s a dead mouse on its back at the bottom of the stairs.”
“OKAY, THAT’S IT!” I could feel my world closing in on me.
“Pack your bags! We’re heading to the Holiday Inn. I’m not staying in this mouse infested, dead rodent dumpster. What’s next? Giant snakes slithering in through the sump pump hole? A Mutual of Omaha Safari Jeep patrolling the street for wild boar?”
Mickey D was so calm on the phone that he obviously was not taking this seriously.
“Just scoop it up and throw it out. I’ll be home tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? I’m in the trenches today, My Hero.
I knew I had to call G, Mickey’s dad. He’ll be mad at having to come at
“Mom. Mom.” Drewpy had ventured half way down the stairs.
“Leave it. I’m calling your grandfather. I can’t sleep with a rotting carcass in the basement.
“Mom. It’s not a dead mouse.”
“Then what is it?” Please don’t be a rat. Please don’t be a rat.
“It’s a plastic alligator”. Thank you, God.
After a sleepless night, I clanked and banged my way down the hall to the kitchen so any gang of swarthy party rodents would have a heads up I was coming. I had the boy’s shovel down cold pizza and we got outta there.
Mickey D was home before me and had already pulled out the appliances and inspected the counters, floors, small spaces etc.
“Did you ever see a mouse?” he asked.
“Well, no, I didn’t actually see one.”
“There are no mice here.”
“But there were droppings.”
“No, Drama Queen. That was flax seed off your bagel.”
Rats.