Lion and Magic Boy

Poor Eric. Only two months old, and he has to wait for everything. I suppose that’s what comes of being the fourth child. He is just about out of patience, sitting in his little car seat to give my arms a break, while I make lunch for Nathaniel and Serena. After they are seated I take him, relieved to be out of his seat and into my arms, upstairs for a diaper change and nursing. I think wistfully about having a nap.

A few minutes later, settled in nicely with Eric for a long nursing session, Nathaniel and Serena come clattering up the stairs, shattering my few minutes of peace.

Oh no, I think, What do they want? Are they done with lunch already?

They sound scared. Uh oh.

“Tasha’s chasing a mouse!” pants Nathaniel breathlessly. Tasha is our cat. “It’s this big!” He holds his hands about 5 inches apart. Um, a mouse? Sounds like a rat. Ugh. Maybe it’ll go away if I ignore it.

“OK, close the doors going up and stay on the second floor for now.” I try to sound calm.

They go down. Good. Peace again. Maybe it’ll just…..go away.

Five minutes later, they are back. There are tears in Nathaniel’s eyes. “It’s dead!” he wails.

Great. Now it’s dead. Which is worse? Alive? Or dead?

“Sometimes they just pretend…..maybe it’ll go back to where it lives,” I say soothingly. I am making this up; I really don’t know whether they pretend to be dead when there is a cat around, but it sounds plausible. “Where is it?”

“By the basement door.”

Oh. I hope Tasha doesn’t take it down into the basement. We’ll never find it again. Yuck.

“OK,” I say brightly, “Stay on the second floor. I’ll check it out when I get a chance”.

Feels like naptime. Eric is asleep; maybe I can doze off for a bit. But I can’t help thinking about that mouse. I’m still in denial: maybe it’ll go away? Um. Getting sleepy. But that mouse…..I can’t help picturing it, lying on the tile floor in the kitchen, in front of the basement door. Sleep……mouse…..sleep……mouse…… sleep……

mouse…..mouse….mouse.

Mouse wins.

Eric wakes. I call the children to come up and be with him while I go downstairs.

Gingerly I go down the steps. I open the door from the second floor and step into the living room. So far so good: no mouse. I tiptoe into the kitchen, afraid of what I may find. I peek around the half-opened door to the basement: no mouse. I venture all the way into the kitchen, looking everywhere on the floor. No mouse. Yay! No mouse! I guess it went back to its home after all. So that wasn’t a fantasy I told the children; it’s really true!

For good measure, I glance briefly again into the living room just to make sure. I pick up a pair of Nathaniel’s pants from the floor, and then I spot something. What is it? It’s gray and red………..oh, EEEEEEWWWWWWW!

And there’s the mouse, or most of it? him?, lying in front of the Christmas tree. And next to him, mostly on a picture Serena has drawn of various famous reindeer, is the regurgitated rest of him, his middle. Road kill, right on the Persian rug.

I guess Tasha doesn’t like Mouse-snack as much as she thought she would.

In a panic, I rush upstairs.

“Children, don’t go down for awhile!” I am sure my voice is calm, but somehow they see the whites of my eyes which show my hysteria.

“Nathaniel, come here a minute!” I hiss beckoningly. We go into the computer room. I whisper fiercely, “How good are you with yucky stuff?”

“What?” he blinks.

Oh. Right. He’s still only eight, even if he is almost as tall as me. And he had tears thinking the mouse was just dead. And if I’m freaking out over seeing its gory remains, surely he’ll be even worse.  So he’s out.

“Um, never mind,” I mutter lamely.

Uhhhh. I’m going to have to do this myself.

I go back downstairs, into the kitchen, avoiding the living room and the little corpse therein.

The phone! Who can I call? I retrieve the address book from the living room, not looking in the direction of the mouse. Maybe our neighbors, Dave and Suzie? We don’t know them well, but surely Dave will do this favor, a mouse removal favor. I begin to dial. Hang up. No wait, I’d better think of what I’m going to say. Ummm, Hi Suzie, how are things? Good, well, could Dave come over and do a little thing for me?

Right. Never mind. Sounds really lame. And besides, am I really going to let him walk with snowy boots right into the house and onto that carpet without a comment? (I’m just a little anal about dirt and shoes and things) How does this sound: Um, Dave, thanks for coming over to do this favor for me, could you take your shoes off please?

Next idea. I dial Heidi’s house, wondering whether her husband would come over and take care of the mouse (they only live an hour away). No answer, nor to her cell.

Next idea. Dad? Maybe he can come….no, it’s snowing, he won’t want to make the drive. But maybe he’ll have an idea.

“Dad? I have a problem….Tasha found a mouse and it’s on the floor and she ate some of it and — eewwwwwww!”

“Oh, we had mice in college. Used traps.” This is no big deal to him, evidently.

“Well, David’s been setting out the humane traps, and I can’t even look in those at the live mice, how’m I going to deal with a dead one?” I wail.

(Muffled laughter) “It’s just a little mouse…. Try some rubber gloves?”

“But then I’ll feel it through the rubber gloves!” I can almost feel a limp, soft, furry, dead mouse body on my fingertips through the thinnest layer of Playtex. Nope. Next idea. “I know, tongs! No, a spatula! I must have one here that I’ll never use again!” I rummage through a drawer in the kitchen.

Armed now with a spatula and a paper bag, I cautiously approach the mouse remains.

I can’t look at it. How can I look at it? I’m already way too close to it. Um, how can I get the mouse in the bag without looking at it?

Holding the spatula in the tips of my fingers, I try to nudge the cold little limp body into the paper bag.

No go.

Finally, I am able to somehow get the body into the bag, trying not to pay attention to the dead weight at the end of the spatula which is attached to my own hand, way too close for comfort.  I am successful at not actually throwing up during this procedure, though the gagging has become unbearable and I am now trying to think about anything but this cold little body being slowly inched into a bag by the tip of my old metal spatula. I put the spatula in the bag too, for good measure (I’ll never use it again of course) then close the bag, holding it at arm’s length, and deposit the whole thing outside on the porch for someone else to deal with later.

Sigh.

I tell the children they are not allowed in the living room for the rest of the day (mouse remains on the carpet), and retreat back upstairs. The ordeal is over.  Except I know I’ll never be able to set foot on the carpet again.

Maybe not even in the entire room.

We may have to move.