Friday, January 16, 2009

On The Move

This morning, Metro

(the wonderdog) jumped off the chaise lounge in the master (his customary perch) and started frantically sniffing and scratching at my armoire.

What?” you ask…. “This armoire? The armoire that you custom designed…painstakingly adding the exotic wood inlay and intricately cutting the molding to your exact specifications? That armoire?”

“Yes…that’s the one,” I say…nodding my head emphatically.

I could not imagine what Metro was after, but assumed (thereby making an “ass” of “u” and “me”) it was a bird on the other side of the wall. I pat the top of his head…said “it’s nothing, honey” and tried to settle back with laptop…but he wouldn’t give it up.

I walked over to my nightstand to retrieve my handy-dandy emergency flashlight...and as I turned around, I thought I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. (At this point, picture Metro stuffed head-first into the right hand side opening of the above photo, so he’s oblivious.)

From behind the designer black trash can runs a tiny mouse.

I screamed. I mean….I SCREAMED….which, in turn, made the teeny mouse cut to the right…into the hallway…and INTO CONNOR’S BEDROOM.

Now, I’m SCREAMING and I’m CRYING and I’m GAGGING. Metro’s barking…but he’s yet to know why…it’s more of a reaction to my reaction.

I don’t do mice.

I’ll do spiders….but not mice.

When I was five, my mom gave me bologna sandwiches for lunch. I did not like bologna…but being the kind gentle soul that I am, I didn’t want to hurt her feelings by admitting this. So, I did what any logical five-year-old would do...and threw my bologna sandwiches down into the basement and went off to kindergarten, where I undoubtedly survived on paste and drinking-fountain water.

When the mice were discovered in the basement, (feasting on a mountain of discarded bologna on white with a little butter), (MOM: I wish I could ask you what deal was with the butter…is this a German thing?) my dad had to set many, many traps.

My punishment for having created this infestation was picking up the traps and throwing them into the garbage. I was five. Five. Today he’d be brought up on child abuse charges. I did the first one or two and was so distraught, he took pity on me and let me off the hook for the rest…but alas, the damage was done, or le mal était déjà fait.

I have an abnormally intense, instant, severe reaction to mice.

I have, on occasion, had my heart skip several beats when I mistakenly thought I’d seen movement out of the corner of my eye…only to realize it was my own bangs splintering my vision. This is how DEEPLY I’ve been affected by this childhood event.

Fast forward to now…and I’m beside myself. I grab the phone and start dialing. I do believe I called nearly everyone I know.

First call is to Dad: It rings and rings and rings. This means he’s on the phone and is not clicking over. Ironic, when you think about it….so I disconnect.

Then I call Tonia…who sends out an APB of massive proportions… “SOK! SOK!” (Save! Our! Kathryn!). Unfortunately, no-one was immediately available to get in my face, slap me hard on the cheek and say “SNAP OUT OF IT!”…although everyone said they really wished they could…so I was on my own.

I ran to the hardware store and purchased ten (count ‘em…10) "walk-in, but-don’t-walk-out" mouse traps…and placed 9 of them in every room of the house....leaving one as a back-up.

There are no piles of balogna sandwiches in this house. I have been assured that this is one of the perks of living in the "country". Would you like to hear my personal thoughts on living in the "country"?


Now, I wait….and I jump…each time my vibrating cell rings in my pocket….or the furnace kicks on…or the wind picks up.

Every now and then, someone calls to see if I’m still breathing….and Tonia’s arrived to distract me with stories from her past, a bottle of red for her and the prerequisite bottle of Cloudy for moi.

It’s almost Cloudy enough to check one of the traps….almost.


Anonymous said...

Maybe a cat would help?

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