Congratulations are in order.  I caught a house mouse. I didn’t catch her by hand or anything.  I didn’t hunt her down with a bow and arrow or miniature rifle.  I caught her with a snap-your-head-off-trap.  The poor thing, she should have chosen the live mouse trap box that was placed mere feet away. Geezus, how many times I’ve chosen the wrong door.

The use of the pronoun, “her,” is an educated guess. I’m pretty sure this mouse was a “sheila” based on her discriminating taste.  All of the other traps were set with cheese and pepperoni and included a small beer and itty-bitty remote control.  In contrast, the trap of her choice had been baited with chocolates and a tiny bundle of flowers.

You might think, “whats the big to-do over an insignificant furry rodent,” and that I must be completely incapable of getting on in life.  Well, let me assure you, I could survive just about anywhere and in fact, I have.  I’m resilient the way.  You can ask anyone, well almost anyone.  Never-mind, I’ll give you he short list.

Its my prerogative to “wimp out” now and again and I didn’t want to get on with a house mouse.  I didn’t feel up to the task of a hunt, capture, kill and disposal.  I expected there would be some measure of backlash and I was right.  I’m getting a slew of hate messages from animal right activists.

As a biology teacher, I can dissect a mouse or any other varmint after preservation in formaldehyde.  I can even label his teeny tiny organs.  Furthermore, I could keep him as a pet, in a cage and give him a cute little name.  However, a mouse must come to me in a package that I’m prepared to open and not a surprise package nor can he be found loose, without a collar, and freely running around willy-nilly.

This mouse was putting my emotional stability just a tad bit over the edge;  It happens – that edge thing. My coping skills falter. Anyway, I heard her chewing under my couch. MY COUCH! The place I securely rest my head while watching, “The Bachelor.”   I just know she was looking for a place to make an uninvited fluffy nest amongst the heap of popcorn kernels and Heshey kiss wrappers. She had to GO.  That is the way sometimes.  I would not share my couch or cholates with this beady eyed vermin.

So now I have to contend with a dead mouse stuck in a trap. I’m going to need a “service” for this disposal part.  We all need a little help now and then.  Today is one of my “Help me, I’m a women in distress,” sort of days.   Any other day I might have pick her up with my bare hands, free’d her dead head and held a quaint, respectable memorial service. I don’t think so, but woman are fickle that way. One day we are hard-core and can take on the world and the next day, quite worthless.

Guess which one I am today?