A MOUSE IN THE HOUSE!

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I know the title sounds like a children’s book – but believe me, this is most assuredly not lightweight fare suitable for young ones. This is the story of a grim life-or-death struggle between two human beings and a calamitous creature that tormented us for days with his crafty cunningness.

A beast whose bravery allowed him to partake of the all-night buffet that I was serving on six different traps spread throughout the kitchen while the exhausted humans lay snoring in bed, oblivious to the wanderings of the capricious critter carousing at will through their domicile.

But let’s go back to the beginning so that I can set the scene.

It was mid-morning. Our little terrier and I were sound asleep in my recliner, taking what would be the first of many naps on a lazy Wednesday. I find it’s best to pace myself throughout the day because, as you can easily see, retirement is brutal.

Suddenly, the peaceful tranquility was shattered by a blood-curdling scream. Since my wife was the only other person in the house, it was reasonably easy to deduce that she was the culprit. Instantly, I realized this development deserved my undivided attention, so I opened one eye and said, “Hey! We’re sleeping over here. A little consideration, please.”

It is amazing how, after decades of marriage, I still manage to consistently respond inappropriately to anything my spouse thinks, says, or does. And this occasion was no exception.

As I wiggled my butt in my chair to get comfortable again, there was a second ear-piercing shriek, which caused me to open the other eye just in time to see my bride burst into the room, hurtle the still sleeping, useless cat and then, with a vertical leap that would make any NBA player proud, she sprang onto the sofa where she danced on tiptoes executing several breathtaking pirouettes, all while screaming at the top of her lungs.

Exactly how the cat slept through all of this excitement is a bit of a mystery. But, ultimately, my wife’s conniption proved to be just a warm-up exercise compared to what was to come several days later.

As my beloved slowly regained her senses and began to catch her breath (prolonged screaming does take a toll), she turned to me, still snuggled up in the recliner with our little dog, and fixed me with a harsh glare.

Realizing I was now on the spot, I was unsure whether or not I was expected to verbally comment on what had just transpired, so I chose, after years of making the mistake of speaking up, to remain silent. I may be a slow learner, but I do learn.

Still struggling to stay on her tiptoes (not an easy task at her age, but I was way too bright to mention THAT out loud. Another lesson learned), she pointed at me and hissed, “Are you just going to sit there and do nothing?!”

Knowing this was a dicey moment that was most likely not going to go my way, I froze like the proverbial deer in the headlights. Our terrier, sensing trouble, jumped off my lap and beat a hasty retreat to the bedroom. It has long been suspected at our house that the dog is smarter than me, and here was actual proof.

The urge to follow our pup was overwhelming, but I knew better than to make any sudden moves when my wife was this agitated.

Because she is normally an extremely calm, rational person, I was at a loss as to what could have terrified my spouse and set her to dancing on the sofa and, even more importantly, what had interrupted my nap.

For once, I chose my words with care and asked with some trepidation, “What’s up?”

Staring at me the way she does when she regrets with every fiber of being that she walked down the aisle at our wedding and said, “I do”, my bride bellowed, “WE HAVE A MOUSE IN THE HOUSE!!!”

Attempting to project a casual demeanor, I responded, “Oh. Is that all?”

Now, let me pause right here to point out that what made this such a startling event for my wife is that, despite running a small business from our home, she keeps our house immaculate. In all our years of marriage, we had never once had a rodent in our residence.

But startled she was, not to mention being incredulous at my lackadaisical response. With considerable gusto, she shouted my words back at me, “IS THAT ALL??!!” Unfortunately, three words were all she could manage because the aerobic tiptoe dancing had left her winded. Finally, feeling a little light-headed, she came to rest and panted, “How can you be so calm about this?”

Regrettably, this was when I made my all-too-common mistake of being honest. It’s a habit I wish I could break. “The mouse is not big news. He has been here for several days.”

The blood quickly rose in my spouse’s already flushed face until it glowed a bright crimson. Sadly, I’m the only person in the world who can make her look that way.

Through clenched teeth, my bride exploded, “YOU KNEW WE HAD A MOUSE??!!!” (I realize I’m using a lot of exclamation points, but I’m trying to capture the spirit of the moment.)

Still the picture of serenity, I replied calmly, “Yes, I noticed him on Monday.”

In disbelief, the mother of our child implored with intense bewilderment, “And you didn’t do anything?!”

At that instant, for some inexplicable reason, my senses left me, and I volunteered a piece of information that would have been much safer to have kept to myself, but it’s not like it’s the first time that’s ever happened. Growing defensive, I replied. “I did something………. I named him Murray.”

What was I thinking?

I watched nervously as my wife began to shake with barely controllable rage. (Just a heads up. Get ready for more exclamation points.) Carefully, she climbed down from her perilous perch on the sofa and strode over to my recliner. Leaning down, her voice seething with anger, she hissed, “Why did you bother to name that monster Murray?!!!”

Once again, honesty was not my friend. With beads of perspiration breaking out on my considerable forehead, I gulped hard and answered meekly, “I named him Murray because (I gulped again) Mickey was already taken – you know – the famous one with the amusement parks.”

“That’s not what I meant!!! It’s a ravenous, repulsive, repugnant, revolting, reduced replica of a rat! YOU are supposed to get rid of him – NOT GIVE HIM A NAME!!!”

Although she was never one to mince words, I was somewhat taken aback by my spouse’s exhausting display of emotion. Cautiously, I replied with as much defiance as I dared, “That is not my job. Wake up the cat. Catching mice is her job.”

Reaching the end of her patience, my bride roared, “The kitty is too old and slow to catch a mouse!!!”

Stating the obvious, I declared with hard-won assuredness, “So am I.”

TIME OUT.

Before we go any further, I willingly admit, without reservation, that my wife is the bravest person I’ve ever met. She has ten times the courage I have. Well, that’s not true. It’s more like one hundred times. The point is, it was incredible to me that a tiny three-inch life form weighing less than one ounce could cause this woman, who is a pillar of power, a fortress of fortitude, a triumph of toughness, and a sanctuary of strength, to become a hyperventilating heap of hysterics. (I have more adjectives if you need them.)

Suffice it to say, the heated discussion over whose job it was to rid our home of Murray’s presence continued until, as my bride put it, I came to my senses. It was, of course, a discussion that we both knew from the beginning, I was going to lose.

And so that evening, I began to wage what turned out to be an epically titanic struggle to corral the crafty critter who struck mortal fear into the heart of my beloved. The war of attrition lasted night after night as I dutifully set the traps with my spouse shouting superfluous instructions from the safety of another room.

I hardly needed her words of advice because, remarkably, while setting the bait, I only snapped a trap on my finger two different times, which led me to spontaneously unleash a string of four-letter words that I didn’t even realize I knew but that supplied sweet relief as I coped with the howling pain.

However, over time, our uninvited visitor proved exceptionally elusive, and, at random moments during the day and particularly in the evenings, he would suddenly make an appearance, and crazed chaos would consume our castle.

But late one evening, Murray finally overstayed his welcome and passed the point of no return. In a fateful decision that assured he would be leaving this life sooner rather than later, he did something so despicable, so deplorable, so demonic that his fate was sealed.

Let me state as clearly as I can exactly what happened:

The rascally, rambunctious rodent, in a mind-blowing moment of madness, scampered straight up my wife’s pajama pant leg!!!

Holy guacamole! It was a sight to see!

My bride had walked over to the end table to turn off a lamp, and as she leaned over, Murray made his move. With a dizzying display of deftness, he darted out from under the sofa and shot straight up the left leg of her flannel pajamas.

The sudden awareness of the furry fugitive frantically climbing up her calf and heading with bold determination for parts northward instantly transformed my spouse into a world-class Olympic gymnast who, without thought or a moment’s hesitation, performed several stunning acrobatic cartwheels, then a jaw-dropping back handspring, a perfectly executed forward somersault, followed by a sensational scissors leap which led into a daring double backflip. And I’m happy to report that she even stuck the landing.

Utterly spellbound, our little dog and I looked on in wide-eyed wonderment. I had no idea the old girl was so spry!

Now, under any circumstances, this would have been an impressive feat, no matter what a person’s age. But when you consider the fact that my wife has lived through thirteen presidencies, and suffers from a bad back, bursitis, arthritis, occasional bouts of bronchitis, a varicose vein or two, chronic chafing, hot flashes, chills, dry scalp, chapped lips, and a persistent prickly heat rash, it – was – truly – amazing! Not to mention that the entire performance took place while wearing PJs and a pair of flip-flops.

I should mention that I can only get away with this less-than-flattering description of my bride because I am older than she is and in much worse shape.

You have to understand that our world revolves around Social Security and Medicare. At our age, my spouse and I have trouble just bending over and tying our shoes. (Hence the flip-flops.) But I had just witnessed the impossible. The person I had chosen to share my life with had put on an electrifying exhibition of limberness and flexibility that defied the laws of science.

Thankfully, it turned out that at the summit of her sensational scissors leap, Murray had managed to extract himself from the fevered fiasco in flannel and vanished in the blink of an eye.

But I was still present, and that meant I was available to absorb the rabid ravings of a person who had endured a cataclysmic crisis that had left her chagrined beyond her capacity to cope.

Whew!

I’ll spare you the grisly details of our discussion, other than to say they took place at a volume level that finally woke up the cat. To sum up, I was given a direct command to send Murray to mouse heaven OR ELSE. I wasn’t sure what the OR ELSE entailed, but I assumed it would have a negative impact on my long-term well-being.

Although I felt I was being unfairly singled out as the person responsible for Murray’s very existence, I chose to take the high road and compliment my wife. Which is another way of saying I made the unfortunate mistake I always make in sensitive situations with my bride. I opened my mouth.

In what my spouse considered to be an inappropriately upbeat tone of voice, I pointed out, “Look at the bright side. I think your little floor exercise proves that you don’t need to waste money on a chiropractor anymore!”

Sadly, my clever quip landed me yet another long night of sleeping on the sofa.

But my wife’s dance with the devil, or the pajama pants party as it became known in our house, spurred my efforts to trap Mr. Murray before I felt the full wrath of my marital partner.

And fortunately, for my health and safety, within 18 hours, the deadly deed was done. The mouse had proven himself to be a more than worthy adversary, and I was sorry that his life had to come to an end – but better his life than my marriage.

With sincere respect that my bride could not begin to comprehend since she was a little cranky over the hamstring she pulled during the scintillating scissors leap the night before, I dropped the petulant pest in a plastic bag and disposed of his earthly remains in the trash outside.

It was an unceremonious ending for the tiny tyrant who had most likely been traumatized by the wild ride he’d endured during the torturous tango performed with my wife in their flannel flash dance.

But, unfortunately, there was still one more sinister surprise lurking ahead. A few days later, we discovered, to my bride’s heartbreaking horror, that MURRAY was actually MURIEL and that she was one extremely fertile female!

ONE FINAL NOTE:

The morning I disposed of the creature’s carcass, the love of my life confronted me. Staring with as much intimidation as she could muster, she barked, “I’m serious as a heart attack about this. We tell NO ONE about the stupid mouse episode! Understand?”

Smiling innocently, I replied with boyish charm, “Whatever you say, Sweetie.”

Well, here I am, still on the right side of the grass. So, obviously, she hasn’t read this yet.

But I fear I’m living on borrowed time.