There is a mouse in my kitchen.
My roommate alerted me to this fact. She knocked on my door while I was writing, requesting that I end the wee tim’rous beast’s life.
A number of thoughts ran through my head.
- I look awful in a t-shirt and an old pair of soccer shorts. My hair is a mess because I slept on it. Not that it matters, since she’s my roommate and I have a rule about this sort of thing and I’m entirely certain she’s not interested, but she is also a quite attractive young woman of about my age who has a cute French accent, being as she is from a part of France that produces cute accents in attractive girls in their early 20s. It would be nice to not look like a lazy slob.
- I am the kind of person who prefers his first contact with dead animals to come between two sesame seed buns and slathered in barbecue sauce. I do not hunt, despite having had opportunities to learn, and I generally avoid picking up dead animals if I can help it.
- I need to fucking move.
She cited my gender in her assertion that I should kill it. I reminded her that this is the 21st fucking century; she can kill her own goddamn mouse.
I did, however, take the opportunity to scare the shit out of her. She had seen the mouse run under the dishwasher, so we got the broom and started poking under there. I yelled; she flipped out; I rolled on the floor laughing.
Abandoning the grand hunt, I returned to my room to continue working.
The mouse came back.
This time, it was not scurrying along the floor, but invading the much more sacrosanct area of the counter. I was called in again, being the bloodthirsty hunter that I am. It had apparently found some space between the stove or behind the microwave or something. She armed us with pasta colanders to trap the creature.
Naturally, I use the tension to scare the shit out of her again. Because it’s funny, and because I’m an asshole.
In the midst of this though, I think maybe I sorta kinda maybe saw something brown move across the stove in my peripheral vision. We carefully move away the items on the side of the counter where I believe it may have run to.
We move the microwave. Nothing.
At this point, I make the decision to cede the kitchen to the mouse. It has won two battles. It will surely bring reinforcements. We will survive on dried and canned foods only. We will walk around the house if we wish to access the back patio. We will no longer use the restroom past the kitchen. Besides, the water runs in the toilet if you don’t jiggle the handle right, and we rarely remember to do so, and I’m sure that’s not good for the utilities bill. It is a tenuous peace for now, but if we respect his lands, perhaps it can last.
[The Big Roar.]