It Could Happen To Anyone

We had a party-crasher at the Mansion last week. Sorry for just now bringing it to your attention. A proper investigation had to be conducted.

On the days when I was not sitting in a waiting room at the doctor or dentist, I plopped myself in front of New Delly, my faithful desktop computer who resides in my dark basement lair. Several times, I heard a slight rustling. So slight, it might not even have been considered rustling. At first, I thought there was a drip in my ceiling from Incompetent Plumber H's master bathroom garden tub. I looked over my shoulder, but could find no new stains on my drop-ceiling tiles. Yet I heard it again. I could just about pinpoint the sector where the noise originated, but every time I got up to investigate, the noise stopped. I even called in reinforcements, namely The Pony, to check it out. He was the one who found the Devil's Playground Plastic Bag Millipede several months ago. But no. No critters or dripping water were discovered.

Saturday night, after my casino run, I reclined in front of the big-screen to watch absolutely nothing of interest, and called my mom. During our conversation, I thought I saw a shadow zip across the floor horizon, headed for the tree skirt. Yes, our Christmas tree is still up. It's artificial. A bone of contention between Scrooge H and me. But back to my hallucination...

I thought I was seeing things. I had not been paying attention. I finished my call, and started flipping channels. Then the shadow ran the other way. I saw it. Black. Round. Small, like a furry plum. I could only assume that it was a mouse. Or a small tarantula. Because I did not see a tail on that critter. Or a definite shape. But it ran along the baseboard, so it must have been a mouse, because a tarantula could have shown off a bit by crawling up on the wall.

I informed Exterminator H of the problem. He came down and 'looked' for it, and said he would pick up a mousetrap. We had a tiny field mouse years ago, but it was a light brown color, with big ol' Mickey Mouse ears. This one looked like one of those fake furry thingies that you can buy at a Rendezvous from fake Mountain Men, with a little fishing line doodad that you pull, and it looks like a mouse is crawling up your shirt. Not that I have one of those.

Incompetent H baited the mousetrap, but it kept going off before it was placed along the wall. I'm hoping he wasn't trying to get a bite of cheese on the way down the steps. Last night, about 30 minutes after I went to bed, I was startled awake by a snapping sound. This morning, I told Grouch H that he needed to check his trap. I heard the door to the workshop open, then the basement door. Trapper H reported that a tiny mouse the size of his thumb had been dispatched.

The Pony mourned that we shouldn't have had to kill the mouse, but only catch it and turn it loose. Who does he think we are, my mom, who gets one of those cardboard mouse hotel thingies so she has to carry a scrabbling, hysterical rodent outside and let it go? Nope. Not us. Kill it dead, dead, DEAD is our motto.

Darn that #1 son for leaving the basement door wide open on the LAST coldest day of the year. No wonder Tank the beagle was in the house. He probably chased his little mouse buddy right in the wide-open door, then they both took a break. Like some real-life cartoon of dog-and-mouse. Or else Mousie could have just sauntered in under the two-inch gap between the door and the floor, twirling his little handlebar mustache, doffing his top hat to an imaginary Welcome Wagon committee.

The trap is currently armed, but I think the uninvited guest list was short.