For crying out loud. Can’t we go one winter without a visitation? Just one? Living in an old farmhouse, this is as likely as a Kennedy turning Republican or Mr. Schrock taking up coffee, but a girl can hope, can’t she?
Being a writer, I process life that way. So when the latest episode occurred, I turned to words to express my feelings. “Dear Schrock Mouse, I know you’re in here,” I began. “I’ve heard your grody little feet skittering overhead in the dark of the night. That, and I’ve been finding ‘black rice’ in my pans in the cupboard. Your little colon’s been busy, and it’s making me cranky.”
When I’m on a roll, there’s no holding back. “That’s why I’m putting out a nice peanut butter snack for you. Your cousin who showed up last year sure liked it. So go ahead, little buddy. Chow down. That’s all. Signed, The Grumpy Writer.”
Boy. If I want to get my female friends going, that’s all it takes. Mention a mouse sighting, and there’s a collective shudder followed by expressions of disgust and ideas for the eradication of the little boogers. They process with words, too.
Now, here’s the thing with mice. I don’t invade their homes, eat their food, or scamper around in a ridiculous fur suit. And I sure don’t, uh, leave stuff in their pots and pans, an “October surprise,” if you will. I don’t. That’s why such temerity offends me.
Anyway. That was chapter one. A few nights later, Mr. Schrock dropped a bomb. “I know where the mice are now,” he said, brows beetling slightly. He’d just come up from the basement where he’d been working out.