Or rather, in my writing Hut.
When I set my first mouse trap in my forest van sanctuary, I felt I was committing an unethical act akin to that of the American military rounding up Natives–if not in magnitude, at least in attitude. After all, this was the traditional territory of mice, woodpeckers, and poison ivy. I was only an intruder. (And the poison ivy soon let me know I was not welcome on her grounds.)
But I pushed aside my guilty feelings at the thought of mice feet scrabbling across my coffee table or mice hineys releasing tear-dropped seeds of excrement on my desk.
I set a trap. Two of them, actually: one in the front of the van near the vent where I had seen a mouse disappear, and one at the rear of the van, directly in front of a loose spot of linoleum I saw that same mouse use as a tunnel for exciting excavations.
The next day, I had the mouse.
A week later another.
I thought my mouse problem was solved until yesterday, when I went to my hut to write. I opened up doors and windows to relieve the musty air, leaned over to light one of the candles sitting on my wheel wells–and scared a mouse up. It went skittering across the floor and behind my desk.
I did not scream.
I am not one of those Women Who Scream.
A mouse, after all, is every bit as cute as a kitten or a bunny or a hamster you buy in a pet store. I am the great-granddaughter of a pioneer, the daughter of a farmer, and much too down-to-earth and dignified to lose my composure at sight of a harmless little animal.
I sat calmly writing, hearing the mouse feet skittering in my walls, thinking we were buddies now, whether I liked it or not.
My two traps were set out in prominent positions, full of fresh peanut butter and sunflower seeds, but the mouse–at least what glimpses I had of him–appeared uninterested. I wondered if he’d seen the fate of his two former friends, and was wisely avoiding the traps. Maybe I was cursed with a smart mouse.
I was deep into my words when I felt a movement against my foot–and I screamed.
And screamed.
And screamed again. Help-me-I’m-being-attacked-by-a-rapist kind of screams.
The mouse disappeared beneath my file cabinet, while I lectured it, hysterically, at the top of my voice.
“What have I done to you, mouse? I don’t scream at you, I don’t bother you. You don’t need to come onto my foot! You stay on your side, and I’ll stay on mine, okay?”
I finally calmed down and resumed my writing, my throat sore. But the mouse must have taken all my screaming to heart because, though I heard his feet skittering in the walls, he didn’t come near me again.
I’ll go up to my hut again today, to write. Maybe I’ll find a mouse in one of my traps, victim of my manifest destiny complex and the enticing aroma of peanut butter and sunflower seeds. Or maybe the trap will be empty.
In that case, wonder if I should propose a treaty?
This is too funny! The woman who “does not scream” screaming! I love it!
Yes. Well. It happens to the best of us. ;)
Ack!! I am One Of Those Women and not afraid to admit it. Good luck! ((shudder))
Thank you! I need that luck, because that mouse was roaming around in my house today, still uncaught.
My hut, that is.
You have such a way with words, Lucy. As I read it, I think I felt a mouse run across my foot!!
Thank you! If it felt real to you, I’m doing my job. :) Good to hear from you.
What a cute mouse! I would hate to kill it after all the laughter it has afforded others!
Be at ease. The mouse still lives, seemingly uninterested in peanut butter and sunflower seeds. (I am not personally acquainted with the very cute mouse in the photo, btw. I used a stock photo from Dreamstime.) My mouse was still running around in the Hut today. Someone suggested a live trap, so maybe I will give that a go.
Laughing! I’m One of Those Who Does Not Scream. I give the credit to my many brothers who taught me after much practice to not give the satisfaction of giving them a scream on their latest scheme to scare me.
But…don’t test me with snake.
Gina
LOL. We all have our weaknesses.
You are braver than me!
It’s really not a matter of bravery. Growing up on a farm, surrounded by creatures such as mice and spiders and toads, I’m not USUALLY scared by them. For me, entering a crowd of strangers or talking through a delicate subject requires far more bravery than facing a mouse. I am sure you are brave in many more important, non-mousy areas!
Hey, this blog reminded me of your Aunt Miriam, a dear friend of mine! Her sense of adventure goes beyond me. Mice and spiders are not a big deal to me and I won’t scream (just a gasp now and then) but I won’t wade chin deep in tick and snake infested berry patches like she does. Maybe it’s the Martin in you… Keep up the good work. Btw, when I was a child i would catch mice by putting shelled corn in a hollowed out gourd; then I’d dump them out in my hand. They didn’t seem to want to stay in my fishbowl beside my bed though, because by morning – no mouse!
The Martins are the pioneering and farming blood in my family, so maybe there’s something to that. :) That’s so cute what you did as a child…did your mother find out?
Oh my gosh, got a great laugh reading this post. I especially enjoyed your term “mice hineys,” you non-screaming screamer, you!
Thank you! Glad you enjoyed it…and I think it’s about time I head over to your blog–Tuesday today!
You got a lot of comments on this post. You hit a real chord with all us women and mice!
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