Then I did what any self-respecting thirtysomething would do — I called my mommy.
As soon as she answered, I begin frantically screaming, “It’s in the house!” Then I rattled off more questions than she could ever answer: “What do I do? Is there more than one? If so, where are they hiding? How long have they been here? Are they going to kill me?!”
At first she was panicked because I wasn’t making any sense. Screaming rarely equals everything is OK. Then, when she realized I was screaming about a mouse, she laughed. I have never dealt with a mouse in the house and was less than amused by her amusement of me.
After she dubbed my original plan of burning the house down as “irrational,” she reminded me she saw some mouse traps in the basement and that I should set them.
After doing so, she advised me to go back to reading because “clearly you’ll not be sleeping any time soon.”
And was she ever right. The image of that varmint darting across my kitchen counters is in my mind every time I put my feet to the floor — I have not been barefoot in the house since Mousegate 2013.
I picture his lifeless body I found in the trap the next morning every time I go into the kitchen. I spend little time in that room now. (As an aside, this might turn out to be the best diet ever.)
I wonder where his friends are hiding every time I go to bed, checking to be sure they aren’t lurking under the covers.
From this travesty, I fear I might never recover. Mother Nature might have won this time.
Misty Knisely is managing editor of the Pharos-Tribune. She can be reached at 574-732-5155 or at email@example.com. Follow her: @PharosMK