The other night we wrapped up the evening as we always do, tucked in the kids with one last little kiss, got all cozied up in our PJs and crawled into bed. I was just about to doze off when, as most wives do, my beautiful wife Megan thought of a couple more things that would just be easier if she didn’t have to deal with them in the morning so she popped up from her end of day Sudoku and headed back downstairs to the kitchen.
I love that she does this. She is so smart and honestly if you could take 10 extra minutes at the end of the night and exchange it for 10 more minutes of sleep in the morning wouldn’t you? However, when she got down to the kitchen to do whatever task it was she needed to do she was surprised to see a soft, cute, teeny, little brown field-mouse that had decided that inside was better than outside. He scooted right across the floor in front of her and hid under the stove.
By this point I’m already busy sawing logs in bed when I’m awakened by a calm yet measured sound. It happened once, twice, and then the third time I realized Megan was calling my name. So I do what most husbands do when called while asleep in bed, “WHAT?!”
When I heard her say something that sounded like “mouse” I begrudgingly committed to a zombie style walk down the stairs to see what was going on. Heaven forbid I actually wake up entirely, right? When I get down stairs I’m fully awake after hearing that she cornered this mouse under the stove and that I have to deal with it. Hey don’t get me wrong, I’m a big tough mister-guy but I don’t like mice just as much as you. So I am somewhat perturbed so my gut-reaction is, “well pull out the stove and I’ll stomp on the little bugger!”.
Megan wasn’t so sure about that so I offered the alternative; get the pellet gun and shoot it under the stove (as a kid a witnessed my dad do this in our cabin when a mouse disturbed his viewing of the CTV News with Lloyd Robertson. He hit him right int he eye with a BB from about 4 feet away. Ol’ Dead-Eye-Joe we call him). That idea was vehemently dismissed so I went so far as to get my rubber boots on and sharpen my stompin’ reflexes. Picture a middle aged white dude in his gitch practice stomping in the kitchen wearing big green chore-boots.
In the time it took me to do that Megan had come up with a much better plan. She looked at me and said “I don’t want mouse guts on my floor… let’s set some traps and go to bed.”
You’ve never seen a middle aged white guy in his gitch kick off his rubber-boots and run back to bed faster in your life. Somewhere in the night as I lay sleeping that mouse got the best of me one last time when I could have swore I heard a mouse trap “SNAP”. You think I could get to sleep again after that? ….It would have been easier to pick fly sh*t out of pepper wearing boxing gloves.
It’s time to get a cat.
