12/18/08

Midnight Shooting of a Thief--Do not read before eating.

Above is the true Travis, who loves to load stupid, scary pics on the web--like Dan--but who is one of the true gentlemen I know, and I don't know many. And Crystal? Meet Julie. (Two of my best friends finally meet web-to-web.)

Ivor, you know my cat on a personal basis, don't you? You got her down, Brother. (See his comment under post "Anonymous," which I swear I'll never misspell again.)

OK, I just have to tell someone this: Yesterday, I was sort of drowning, and I was so busy writing in my journal to keep from jumping up and screaming every obscenity I know, and some I've forgotten, from the back porch that I was only vaguely aware of Cat running up and down the stairs and furiously round and round the kitchen. I thought Patch was chasing her because he does that when he's super bored, but I looked up once (when the noise got a little out of control), and he was sitting by me watching the kitchen intently.
The noise IS unusual, and somewhere far in the back of my mind I'm thinking of a discussion I had with Jacob on Monday about the woman in Ammon who was almost robbed recently. A man, posing as a book sales person (how dare he), shoved a gun in her ribs, tied her up, then started grabbing computers, video games, etc. and piling them by her front door. But, someone honked, so this guy runs out without taking any of the stuff. (What an idiot. I swear the IQ of thieves is dropping daily.) Her kids find her tied up when they get home from school--how traumatic was that? So, Jacob and I are discussing visits to locksmiths, since, let's face it, I'm never going to remember the safe place where I've hid the key to my 22, and because for some reason I've always wanted to shoot a thief (now, no gasping, please--just in the arm or leg). It's a secret dream of mine because HOW DARE THEY? I paid for my stuff, and no one, not even PresElect Obama is going to take it--unless I say so! But, hey, I'm busy writing my book to stay off the blog, like Matt Esq suggested I do, so who cares about creepo, probably meth-induced robberies, right?

OK, so I get up around midnight to hunt through my kitchen for some chocolate, and right there--between me and the kitchen--is not a thief but a mouse. Now, mice are not like snakes with me (a dead snake on my rug would have me flying to Canada to hide behind your wise father), but I'm gagging, and this mouse looks like it's just faking dead. I don't want to pick it up because what if it starts squirming. The thought makes me gag twice, but I also don't want the cat throwing it up in the air again, and Patch is moving through my legs to sniff. And where did it come from anyway? I'm sure I've been "mouse-free" for years even though I know this is impossible when one lives in the middle of trees by a river, for hecks sake. But, I'M NOT PICKING THIS MOUSE UP! ... Yet, I have to get to the kitchen. Suddenly, I'm laughing hysterically, doubled over the back of the couch, because this is sort of a gift from God--the death of a rodent--to break my depression. I mean I'm laughing so hard at myself that now I have to go to the bathroom, which means I have to pass the mouse, so I might as well pick it up, since I don't dare go upstairs and leave this dead thing down here with Patch and Cat, who sits by my feet, looking indignant, like, "Hey, I brought you a Christmas present and you dare laugh?" (I'm trying for the world's longest sentences, though I'm sure I'll never beat Henry James.)

So, I edge by, carefully watching for signs of movement, wanting to call my mother, for some reason, to ask what to do, but she is terrified of mice and once stood on a kitchen chair until my dad got home because one was under our sink, and it's now past midnight for hecks sake. I grab almost a full roll of paper towels, but that's not enough, so I pad them into an old cloth towel I won't mind throwing away, while the whole time, I'm screaming at Patch and Cat to stay by me: "Don't you dare go near that mouse, or you'll be as dead as he (or she) is," but that's the problem--is this mouse dead or a great Hollywood actor in disguise? I mean his legs (I'm sure it's a "he" now, since who else would dare interrupt my depression in the middle of the night. Females know instinctively that we all work it out on our own. They quietly sympathize, then leave us alone, bless their hearts. And, Jami, no fair jumping on that sexist remark) are sticking straight up, and his eyes are closed, but...who knows? So, I loosely cover him with a mountain of "stuff," and gingerly gather it up--because I swear if he's faking it and starts moving around, I'll throw him and towels and run for Canada, which means he could land stuck on the ceiling and stay there clear through Christmas (remember, it's past midnight, and I'm not thinking too clearly, nor would you under said circumstances).

OK, so I'm carrying him--with my head turned sideways--convinced he's suffocated by now if he truly wasn't dead--and head for the garbage can; but wait, I can't leave him in a can inside my house! But, how can I put him down to find shoes because he could still be faking death and suddenly run out from underneath the towels? I mean who knows? There’s been a lot of fake stuff happen in my life. So, I open the garage door, with two fingers, my head still turned sideways, and I walk out in the snow to throw a dead rodent into my garbage can-- whose lid is frozen shut. I kick the can hard with my bare feet and bang it against the house wall because I'm not putting this mouse down for anything. And do you know how stinkin' cold it is here? Minus 30 without wind-chill (slightly exaggerated for effect). I finally run clear to the fence behind the shed and throw him--towels and all--into the big gully, and on my frozen run back, I'm wondering, "Is that littering?" which my dad taught us never to do.

I LOVE CAT. She is now playing with the colored lights that swirl around my floor from the crystals hanging from the windows (like in Pollyanna). She is truly one of the Great Females in my life right now.

10 comments:

Eric James said...

I wasn't having the greatest day in the world today, and then I read this. Sister Morgan, you make me smile.

Crystal said...

Ditto.
Incidentally, we have mice as well. I've been feeling guilty, because I assisted in the (live) capture of a small female, whom my sister tossed into the snowy pasture across the road. Her husband was hiding behind the washing machine and wouldn't come out, so we couldn't reunite them. So my mom set out mouse poison.

Sky said...

That's pathetic, Crystal. You threw the wife away, and now you're going to kill the husband. (This sounds like a soap opera of my life.) And just how do you know they were married? They could have been just sleeping together. And I DON'T HAVE MICE. But, just in case, I'm leaving all the cupboard doors open, so Cat can find them all and kiiiiiill them dead.

Eric James said...

Or so the mice (who of course do not exist) can eat all of the food in your cupboards.

Sky said...

Oh Yiiikes (I've never said 'Yikes' in my entire life.)
. . . .

OK, Thanks a whole lot, Eric. I jumped up to shut all cupboard doors, grabbed some V8 (courtesy of Nate)and ran to let Patch back in--who, by the way, had been out chasing a huuuuge black dog out of our yard. Then he urinated on every place the big dog had been (is this too much information?), using both feet to scratch snow backward over the urine, while he's barking the whole time--but before I got to the door, I tripped and spilt the juice all over the kitchen, which means I have to mop now or walk on stickiness all weekend. Whew. And now I can't stop laughing, and I don't want to let Patch back in until he walks through enough snow to wash off any urine or other 'stuffs.' I am having one heck of a day--week--past decade.

OK, that's it. Though I don't dare look in my bank account, let's go Christmas shopping or wrap some gifts. Ready? One, two, three--GO.

Or Not. Hey, if you were out here, we could just give it all up and find a movie.

Crystal said...

Fine. The girl mouse found a nice tunnel somewhere under the snow, and is decorating it with twigs for Christmas. And the boy mouse was no good anyway, so she's happier alone.
There. I feel better.

Crystal said...

Sis. Morgan, I can't do anything useful when you keep posting new things on the blog. It's distracting.


Let's watch an old black and white movie. Those are the best.

Julie M said...

Only if it's Holiday Inn. I love that movie.
I agree with Crystal. The blog is very distracting, but in a funny forget-about-my-life kind of a way.

Emily Goodsell said...

Sister Morgan, I love this. You make the mouse sound like a Pixar movie. My favorite part though is where you say you feel like you should call your mom to see what you should do. I'm glad you said that. Sometimes I feel silly when I pick up the phone to see how my mom would handle situations. (I probably feel silly because I do it several times a day.) Either way, I feel justified now. If you can do it, I can, too.

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