I just had a face-off with the mouse. He looked into my eyes, and I into his and for a very brief moment, I began to sympathize with him as I watched his tiny heart beat out of his chest. A couldn't contain my smile as he nervously rubbed his front paws together and brushed little crumbs out of his whiskers. He was probably scheming his next move, perhaps he wanted to jump into my hair and scratch away at my scalp until I bleed – or maybe all he was thinking about was cheese and going pee and poop somewhere.
We've been battling the mice for a couple of weeks now, two are dead but they are so small that it is looking as though we have The Brady Bunch on our hands. I do hope it is Marsha and Jan we have killed and tossed in the dumpster, cause their dreadful whining must come to an end. The deadly snap of little traps took the lives of the oldest Brady girls but the rest of the family are catching onto our evil plot, so we have meticulously spread poison all over the kitchen. And by meticulously I mean freakin' everywhere. My most recent encounter with the mouse, I suspect, wasn't a compassionate moment between two species, rather a blood thirsty human girl observing the actions of a totally drugged out mouse. He probably wasn't looking at me at all, maybe his cranked out black eyes now see nothing but a world comparable to that of what 98% of the occupants of Golden Gate Park's 'Hippie Hill' experience. I might be dealing with the unmentionable Brady, Deadhead Brady.
They are cute and cuddly in the light, at least once you look right into those ebony eyeballs, but in the quiet dark they suddenly become my worst nightmare. A creature so devastatingly threatening, I would consider hiring Freddy Kruger or maybe Jason Vorhees to keep watch over me as I sleep. (At least they have real weaponry!) A few nights ago I awoke to the sounds of something digging through my garbage. I chased a little Brady around the room for a couple of minutes, practically having a panic attack while defending myself with a giant metal T-square, slamming it down onto the floor and jamming it into every nook and cranny a T-square will fit in. Every night since, I sleep with my eyes open and pray that the little bastard doesn't jump into my mouth as I inhale and start nibbling on my tarter build-up. He would forever taint my delicate taste-buds with his Brady urine and I would never thoroughly enjoy my existence again.
But today the sun is out and the light shines so softly onto his fur coat. He looks like a baby deer, and by baby deer and I mean very small mouse. I've come to the conclusion he must die soon before I get too upset over the whole thing. Plus, he could very well be living in his own hell while he resides in our kitchen completely cracked out and high as a kite on poison. I've reset the traps and prepped them with fresh strawberries. Amongst the poison piles are luscious chunks of cantaloupe. He might not know what hit him, but at least his last meal will be sweet.
We've been battling the mice for a couple of weeks now, two are dead but they are so small that it is looking as though we have The Brady Bunch on our hands. I do hope it is Marsha and Jan we have killed and tossed in the dumpster, cause their dreadful whining must come to an end. The deadly snap of little traps took the lives of the oldest Brady girls but the rest of the family are catching onto our evil plot, so we have meticulously spread poison all over the kitchen. And by meticulously I mean freakin' everywhere. My most recent encounter with the mouse, I suspect, wasn't a compassionate moment between two species, rather a blood thirsty human girl observing the actions of a totally drugged out mouse. He probably wasn't looking at me at all, maybe his cranked out black eyes now see nothing but a world comparable to that of what 98% of the occupants of Golden Gate Park's 'Hippie Hill' experience. I might be dealing with the unmentionable Brady, Deadhead Brady.
They are cute and cuddly in the light, at least once you look right into those ebony eyeballs, but in the quiet dark they suddenly become my worst nightmare. A creature so devastatingly threatening, I would consider hiring Freddy Kruger or maybe Jason Vorhees to keep watch over me as I sleep. (At least they have real weaponry!) A few nights ago I awoke to the sounds of something digging through my garbage. I chased a little Brady around the room for a couple of minutes, practically having a panic attack while defending myself with a giant metal T-square, slamming it down onto the floor and jamming it into every nook and cranny a T-square will fit in. Every night since, I sleep with my eyes open and pray that the little bastard doesn't jump into my mouth as I inhale and start nibbling on my tarter build-up. He would forever taint my delicate taste-buds with his Brady urine and I would never thoroughly enjoy my existence again.
But today the sun is out and the light shines so softly onto his fur coat. He looks like a baby deer, and by baby deer and I mean very small mouse. I've come to the conclusion he must die soon before I get too upset over the whole thing. Plus, he could very well be living in his own hell while he resides in our kitchen completely cracked out and high as a kite on poison. I've reset the traps and prepped them with fresh strawberries. Amongst the poison piles are luscious chunks of cantaloupe. He might not know what hit him, but at least his last meal will be sweet.
2 Comments:
i'v been sniffing mousepoison for like 30 yrs & it hasnt done me no wrong except for the random homicidal freakouts
This little tale made my day. I laughed so hard, well, you know what happens to us old folks....
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