Mice are strange little creatures, when you think about it. Sure, they’re also disgusting and all rodent-y, but when you realize the abilities of these little germ infested assholes, it’s almost impressive. Not impressive enough to keep them around … but impressive, nonetheless.
I have been impressed by mice for some time now, having lived near fields a couple of times in the past and now, again, in this house. My husband, however, doubted their morphing abilities and didn’t give them the credit they righteously deserve.
We have gone round and round in our mouse debate over the last couple years. He insists they cannot flatten themselves down to nearly nothing in order to squeeze into small spaces. I, on the other hand, know that they somehow dislodge all bone structure and slide anywhere they fucking want to.
On Sunday, I finally won the battle. Not with the mice – but with my husband.
He was under the kitchen sink, fixing a pipe or something. I was acting apprentice for the task and performed minor tasks per his request. From the corner of my eye, I saw the little son-of-a-bitch (not my husband – the mouse) scurry across the kitchen hall area into a cabinet. I swear to God – this cabinet was effin closed and latched.
I shared this information with my husband, who immediately stated that I was either lying or crazy (okay, he didn’t say it exactly like that, but he may as well have). I told him to come see for himself unless he was afraid he would be proven wrong.
I was silently praying there wasn’t some black hole into Never-Never Land placed in some crevice in the cabinet. This was my chance to prove my case. I knew I was right. I’d seen it with my own eyes. Provided I really wasn’t crazy, he was finally going to know I was right. About this. About everything. Always.
As we walk up to this cabinet, I noticed the tiniest little separation between the door and the frame. I pointed this observation out to my husband who literally laughed in my face at the idea that the mouse fit through that tiny little space. At this point, I almost doubted myself and my vast knowledge of mice and their disgusting little habits. My confidence was soon redeemed, however, when we opened the cabinet to reveal the little bastard hiding in the corner of the cabinet, as I said he would be.
Ah, sweet victory
It was at that point, and not a second sooner, that we both realized that we hadn’t really thought this plan all the way through.
There we stood, my husband with his shock and surprise and me, with my smug smile, staring at this little mouse who was clearly in all out panic mode. The little fucker was trying every strategy his Mom taught him. He scurried until he realized there was nowhere to run. He squeaked a little in an effort to call in the troops, he played dead thinking maybe we would simply move on with our lives after having realized he was dead and of no use to us.
As I reached for the wrench from underneath the sink, my husband grabs a box. We both turned around with our “weapons” and looks at each other in obvious disbelief.
I was wondering how the hell he planned on killing a mouse with a box. He was wondering what kind of murdering, heartless bitch he really married.
After I giggled a little at the obvious gender role debacle, I put down my wrench and asked what I could do to help catch the little bastard. As we discussed strategy, the mouse made his way out of the closet and into a crack in the wall.
This crack? Less than a 1/4 inch wide. No kidding. I still insist they morph into slime rodents. My husband – even with no leg to stand on – still somehow insists that I am wrong. This must have been a fluke.
And the best part? I obviously set it up to play out the way it did just to make him think I was right.