Of Mice and Men...and Women

I could've sworn that I had already posted this story. But apparently I haven't, as my loyal readers claim they've never read it. Plus I checked my post history and it's really not there. The infamous mouse story...here it is.

Husband and I were newly married, living in less-than-excellent apartments in the local college town. Our horrible track record with neighbors had begun, as our shared-wall neighbors cooked stinky ethnic foods all the time. And we had a mouse that would frequently visit our humble abode - probably to get away from the stinky ethnic food.

The first time we saw the mouse, we were sitting on the couch watching TV. He scurried out from behind the entertainment center into the middle of the living room floor. He proceeded to stand on his hind legs and check us out. I saw him and excitedly exclaimed, "Look, a mouse!" There was yelling and screaming. There was pillow throwing and lifting of feet off the floor. And that wasn't me. Husband freaked out. Freaked. Out.

Keep in mind, Husband and I had only been married a month or so. He's a big guy, former Marine. I wouldn't call him "outdoorsy," but the man can take an M-16 apart and put it back together in the dark. The reaction that one little phrase, "Look a mouse!" garnered completely shocked me. Don't get me wrong - I don't care for mice, but the sight of one does not induce screaming on my part.

I believe I went that very evening to purchase mouse traps. I had to set and check them...Husband was having nothing of it. Neither was the mouse. He was too smart for those stupid traps. Over the next few days, the mouse weilded great power in our little apartment. I rarely saw him, but Husband swore he was being stalked. Apparently the mouse would only come out when I wasn't around. Husband would take the cushions off the couch and even check underneath before he would sit down, check the bed before getting in, and even bang on the closet door before opening it.

Imagine my surprise one afternoon when I came home from work to find Husband standing on the coffee table. With a broom. I think I just stood there with my mouth hanging open. I finally formed the words, "What are you doing?"

"That mouse is after me!"

After Husband came down off the table, we went about our evening. Later, as we were watching TV on the couch, the mouse again showed himself. I guess he'd gotten pretty comfortable with us, because he again stopped in the middle of the living room floor to watch us. This time, I'd had it. Enough was enough. I couldn't protect Husband from this thing forever. It was time for the mouse to go. So I took my shoe off and threw it at him. And hit him.

The mouse was stunned, but he slowly made his way down the hall. I got up to give chase. I wasn't about to let him get away this time. The mouse stumbled into the bedroom, where various items were strewn on the floor. I could tell he was about to expire. In one last act of vengeance against Husband, the mouse crawled up onto the edge of his shoe. I could hear him, gasping for breath. I've never heard a mouse gasp for breath. It was pretty sad, really. Anyway, gasping...gasping...and he fell over in Husband's shoe and died.

Keep in mind, during this whole escapade there was quite a lot of yelling going on. Husband was yelling at the mouse, at me, I was yelling at him, at the mouse...our ethnic-food-cooking-neighbors probably thought they had domestic-disturbance-neighbors living next door. But once the mouse croaked in his shoe, Husband's yelling went to another level. He claimed that he would never wear those shoes again. But seeing as how we were newly married and poor, he had no choice since those were exactly one-half of his shoe collection. Of course, I disposed of the mouse and disinfected the shoe.

So you can see why it was so important for Criket to show her Daddy her prize giant rat. And imagine what actually transpired during the moments the enormous rat was in his presence.

I'm not trying to make fun of Husband. He's told this story on himself multiple times. And it's usually better when he tells it.