What Are You Doing with that Stick?

Last night we saw something.  I didn’t like what I saw.  I tried to get up from the dinner table and got down the hall towards the garage discretely.  But I was feeling murderous.  What I saw had now just ducked into a closet.  “What are you doing with that stick, honey?”

I figured it was best not to discuss this intruder with everyone.  But the all-knowing Mrs. soon put two and two together.  I served myself some more of the crispy squid rings and bean sprouts I’d prepared for everyone and tried not to talk about rodent.  It was either a large mouse or a small rat. 

Later, I noticed my wife had the stick.  “He’s in the bathroom now.  Get something to stuff under the door so he can’t get out!” “Be cool about it.  Don’t make a commotion.” Books of the most minimal remembrance were pulled from the shelf and fitted in.  Either he was laughing at us on his way through some other hole in the room, or he was trapped.   We told the girls the toilet was broken.

Two phone calls later I was done with work.  And I was tired.  I did not want to battle the creature just now.  Rather, lets’ keep him in there and deal with it fresh in the morning.   And so, after the kids were off at school I prepared myself to go and kill this animal.  Not surprisingly, I paused and had the effete notion, that perhaps I could trap him, set him free outside and avoid splattering the bathroom walls with this mammal.   I considered how I could open a small hole, get him in a trashcan and put an old album cover on the top and escort the intruder out.  My wife pointed out to me that my trap was flawed and then it began, like two thousand generations of humans before us, we set out to build a better mousetrap. 

     

We needed a rectangle and then taped a long bag to it so he would run in and make noise.  This was all taped down, fit tightly into the opening we made under the door by removing a book.   It seemed a pretty good set up.  We began to wait.  And wait.  No mouse.  I needed to go out to the gym.  My wife didn’t think the trap was sufficiently durable if we were both out.  Seemed correct.  So we plugged it all back up again. 

Calls and lunch and emails and coffee later, I figured I’d better get some kind of solution to this thing, before the kids came home.  I resigned to head in with the garbage can and try to get him in it.  I went in, and it was lying there on the floor, dead.

I had been certain that, with the toilet water, he’d make it through the night without food and I had told my wife as much.  I began to consider the cause of death and whether it was shock, or thirst or desperation.  I brought him to the garbage can outside and tried to console myself that I’d meant well. 

What are you doing with that stick, honey?