Another Mouse Tale, Part II

Part I





Now, I have told this story to others and have been accused of "over thinking" things in my life (whatever that means), but I swear by such an overactive thought process. I thought about the situation and realized that both the mouse and I were in a bit of a bind. The entire reason that the mouse was in my apartment was due to a series of chance events: two doors that were rarely open at the same time had, in fact, opened simultaneously, right when the mouse was in their proximity. This meant that, in order to escape by "natural" means, a similarly unlikely event would need to occur. As already stated, the dorm was new and seemed quite impervious to rodent penetration, and as happy as I was about that, it also meant that mouse and I were new roommates, he as unable to leave as I was to evict him.





So I kept thinking, and I thought that if I kept the place clean of food and debris, as I normally did, he would have nothing to eat. If had nothing to eat, he would die. If he died, he would smell bad and, in all likelihood, continue to smell bad unless I could find what was left him. As I have since found out, he was able to inhabit quite a good many locations that I simply have no way of accessing: nooks, crannies, and the like, behind fixed shelves and counters. I resolved to let no such end come to pass. Soon enough, a small plate of sunflower seeds was on the floor, and with it, a small ramekin of water. Such was the beginning of our co-habitation.





The next morning there was not a single seed left. Even Santa had left bits of cookies on the mantle. This one was the hungry type, apparently, and though something in the back of my mind warned me that such a system was unsustainable, rather than commit to the great trouble of catching the mouse I continued to leave food out. Being that his food was also my food, as I ate variety, so did he. One night it was pumpkin seeds, another raisins, and one night, that must surely have sent him into ecstasy, was shredded coconut. He ate it all. Not a scrap remained, ever. He had also become bolder. I often prepared for the next day's classes in the late evening, anywhere from 9:00 to 11:00pm, usually on the couch in my living room, which, as chance would have it, is also my kitchen, and also my dining room. A quintessential bachelor's pad that was now home to two single males. Of course, he could have been female, but regardless of gender, mouse had made himself comfortable enough to risk exposure. It happened one night, as I was tracing through pages of The Crucible, that a dark bullet darted through the periphery of my vision, to the right, in the portion of the room I called "kitchen." I shifted my eyes toward the spot and left them there. Moments later, another dart, from cover to cover, and then another. Then, in a flash, he was on the plate, stuffing his cheeks with seeds at a furious pace before flying back into the safety of a dark corner. Indeed, he was fast. Our relationship passed time, like this, for a series of days. Sometimes students would be over, discussing a recent paper or assignment, and they would observe him as he busied himself with the act of gathering. Some laughed and thought me odd - a not atypical opinion of me at the school - while most others considered it a "filthy" creature to have around. I was forced to remind some of the latter that they reeked of lacrosse sweat, after which they more humbly exited my apartment. Despite popular resentment, things seemed well between mouse and I.





As with all good roommates, however, things became strained. I noticed one morning that the kitchen counter, usually laden with drying dishes, was strewn with mouse droppings. I surmised that mouse had finally figured out how to climb the metal rigging that ran up the back of the refrigerator and had thus granted himself access to a larger world. This, in itself, wasn't a big problem, as the droppings were very easily swept into the sink and washed away. At the time I hadn't worried about the nefarious hantavirus that is supposedly carried in some mouse feces, and, illogically, I still don't. What did get me, however, was the mouse's increased bravado. It was as early as 9:00pm, one night, with the evening's dirty dishes still laid out on the counter for cleaning, when I heard a spoon jangle about in a glass bowl. I looked over from around the corner, where I was sitting at my computer. Nothing. Odd. Back to work. A minute more and it jangled again, this time more audibly. I looked again, and again nothing. I knew I wasn't imagining things, though, so I kept my stare and waited. It was mere seconds before mouse returned, hopping into a bowl that had, in previous hours, held a mixture of seeds and raisins, coconut and sugary, agave nectar. A dessert treat, to say the least, and I wasn't the only one who thought so. A nibble here and there and then *pop*, back out the mouse went, disrupting the spoon on the way. I thought to myself, utterly irrationally, "I give you food every night and yet you climb onto my counter and tell me that it is not enough? What gratitude?!"





Eventually, things added up. I have a tall mug, perhaps 10 inches high, that I sometimes make large drinks in. Even this, to my amazement, I found mouse leavings in, meaning that the critter had somehow bounded 10 inches high, straight into the air, to get both in and out of the cylinder. Visions of mouse-made Stonehenges crossed my mind as I calculated the prowess of such a surprisingly capable creature. The droppings, in fact, became more numerous everywhere and some civilized note of disgust crept into my psyche. Also, I grew tired of putting out food. The only thing that kept me doing so was the nagging thought that he couldn't get out and would die if left unfed, potentially causing the "smell" problem earlier alluded to. Thus was dissent sown and the way for the great trapping laid bare.





To be continued in Part III...