I don’t like mice.
Actually, I don’t like most rodents, not even squirrels. Yeah, I know that’s nearly blasphemous in this neck of the woods. And yes, I’ve eaten squirrel, too—it was fried. That statement doesn’t carry the same sort of weight as it did, say when I was in California—you should have seen the reactions from them—but many of our younger generations around here have never tasted it.
You know how the saying goes, though…tastes like chicken.
Now is that time of year, though, when many commonly discover they’ve been landlording an immigrant family of mice. We usually discover they’ve left in a hurry and left their droppings for us to find.
I remember my grandpas always had cats around the house, farm and barn to help keep the mice at bay.
I also remember my first real personal experience with a mouse. I’d just graduated college and was renting a house with a good buddy of mine. One night while trying to sleep, I kept hearing a scratching noise. I’d never heard the noise before so I had no clue what it was. After about an hour, I decided to see what it was, and turned on the lights.
That’s when I saw him run.
I was about 22 or 23, fresh out of college, and thought I was far superior to this mouse.
You’d have to have seen my room to understand what I am talking about here; the only real furniture in my room was the bed. I’d taken milk crates and 2×6 pieces of wood to make a set of “shelving” for myself. This open shelving held books and clothes alike, and it ran the length of one wall.
I chased the mouse around for an hour before he proved to be faster than me and ducked into a hole.
I set a mouse trap directly in front of that hole the next night…once again proving my superiority over the mouse.
When I first moved to Piggott and was staying with Mom and Dad for a while, I must have brought one with me.
Once again, Mann set out to prove superiority to the mouse.
The good thing about modern homes is there aren’t many little holes for mice to duck in. I first spotted it when it ran under the treadmill. This mouse, idiot thing that it was, was probably looking for a lighter workout than it received that night.
Mom and Dad were both there that night and the three of us set out to trap and get rid of it. Dad got on one end of the couch, Mom on the other, and I waited out front, cutting off any possible route of escape.
Mom had a towel, I had a rolled up newspaper, and Dad’s weapon of choice was a flyswatter. I’d like to admit here publicly as to never having seen a flyswatter used a weapon against a mouse. As they say, there’s a first for everything.
Well, that little mouse would run one way and Dad would swat at him with a flyswatter…then he’d run another and Mom would scream and throw a towel at him. Then he’d run at me…poke his head out from under the couch just enough that I couldn’t swat him with the newspaper. I really think he was trying to size me up, see if he could make a dash past me. Maybe he thought since I had a paper I’d just read to him.
Either that or he was catching his breath.
He eventually ended up under an antique buffet in the corner and the process started all over again. That mouse ran so much I could hear him huffing and puffing. Dad eventually got him with the flyswatter—who’da thought that, huh? But the whole process of the hunt took nearly an hour.
I wonder what mouse tastes like? I bet it tastes like chicken.