Ever since we moved into our new house I’ve been waging war against mice.
Some men might be worried if they woke in the middle of the night to find their wife sneaking around the bed with a flashlight, but Hubby greeted the sight with his usual resigned tolerance:
Him: “What are you doing?”
Me: “There’s a mouse in here.”
Him: “Can’t be.”
Me: “There is. I heard it. It woke me up.”
He knows I’m a light sleeper, but he didn’t really believe there were mice in the house; and even if there were, he doubted that I could be woken by the pitter-patter of their tiny feet. So he observed with skepticism while I bought mousetraps and set them under our bed.
Imagine the scene:
We’re lying in bed in the dark. He’s snoozing. I’m staring tensely at the ceiling, clutching a flashlight under the covers.
And then… I hear the little bastard skittering across the floor.
I bolt up in bed, yanking the covers off Hubby and jabbing my flashlight in the direction of the sound.
Hubby: “What the…?”
Me: “I saw him! I saw the little shit! He ran under the bed!”
Hubby: “Yes, dear. Please turn off the flashlight and lie down. And give back my blanket.”
So we settled down again…
I rocketed out of bed, flashlight blazing. “I got him! Ha!”
When I held up the trap containing the still-twitching body, Hubby had to admit that there actually had been a mouse in the bedroom. But he thought the excitement was over and he’d finally get some sleep. Poor deluded man.
I got up and disposed of the body (the mouse’s, not Hubby’s); then reset the trap and went back to bed to stare at the ceiling some more.
Once more Hubby jolts awake to find his wife doing a pagan victory dance around the bed, stark naked and waving a dead mouse.
Did I mention he’s a very tolerant guy?
After I’d caught several mice, the traps on the main floor remained untouched. I still caught one in the crawl space every day or two, but after a while my catch dwindled and I stopped checking the traps every day… until I got my first whiff of rotting mouse and went down to find a bloated corpse leaking malodorous body fluids.
Needless to say, I check my trap lines daily now; and I’m working at closing every tiny aperture around the foundation to stop the invaders.
So when Hubby suggested mice for today’s topic, he added, “Make sure you mention the swollen one. Maybe you could include a smellogram.”
Me (laughing): “Is that even a thing? ‘Cause if it’s not, it should be! Imagine a knock at your door, and some uniformed guy holds out a jar and says, ‘Smellogram for you. Please sniff here.”
I did find the word listed in Urban Dictionary, but the definition insists it’s specifically related to farts. So no smellograms for you today, dear readers.
But if you’re haunted by the recurring image of a naked middle-aged woman dancing around brandishing a dead mouse in the middle of the night, then my work here is done.
Have a good week, and sleep tight…
P.S. I finished the draft of Book 12, woohoo! It’s with the beta readers now. Stay tuned for a title announcement and a release date!