A Mouse Tail, Part I
This started a few days ago when I was gathering some sheets off the floor to put them in the wash. As I started to grab the sheets, I found something brown and furry. But what? This is what my life is like with a head injury.
"What is this thing?" I pondered. "This is a thing. I know this thing. Is this a thing that belongs in the house?"
This thing and I were staring at each other. I think the thing had moved past fear and was thinking, "What is wrong with this chick?"
Slowly, it dawned on me.
"This. Is. A. Mouse."
I declared this in my brain. Yep. Okay. Except for the next problem.
"This is a mouse. This should not be in the house. What do I do with a mouse? What would the old Mel do if she found a mouse in the house? Checking files, no files found. Had she ever found a mouse in the house? No files found again. Okay, okay, okay. So there's no recorded data on what to do."
I have no accurate perception of time anymore. What felt like three minutes could have been ten or more. But the mouse was frozen, perfectly still, and so was I.
I wasn't afraid. The only part of this interaction that startled me was my inability to identify a mouse and that now I was in a holding pattern as to how "Old Mel" would handle it. It actually pained me to have to make any sort of decision as this new self.
Well, it seemed out of character to stomp the mouse. The smartest move would be to quickly refold the sheet and throw everything outside. Except that involved, like, two steps. That was one more step than I was capable of. And it also involved ninja-like reflexes. I have the reflexes of a sleeping cow right now. Next?
"I'm not sure if Old Mel would do this or not," I thought. "I give you full permission, if you're down. The quickest way out of this, even with deadened reflexes, is to scoop up the mouse. With your hands."
Seriously. The mouse was still not moving. We were both frozen in time.
"Wait," my mind sputtered. "Is this a...wise thing to do? Like, okay, I'm about to have a live mouse in my hands, fine, but is this something a normal person would do? It's a field mouse. Does that make any difference? Hey, so the bubonic plague. That was rats. No, that was the fleas on rats. Bacteria on the fleas? Why do rats get such a bad rap? Oh! This mouse could bite me. Is that...a bad thing? Well, I don't know, but it's kind of a deal-breaker, this biting thing. I don't mind it so much, but I have a neurologist appointment on Wednesday. It might come up, the subject. And, well, I kind of have enough problems without being bitten by a random mouse I was trying to catch in my hands. Nope."
The next plan was to catch the mouse in something other than my soft and supple hands. But now I was going to have to enlist help. My brain was so overtaxed at this point, I might as well as gone to bed, but I called out to my eight-year-old kiddo.
"Hey, I need you to get a thing because there's a thing in the house!" I shouted from my bedroom to my kiddo's. This kind of vague request, simply because I didn't have the words for "container" and "mouse," produced exactly the kind of results you'd anticipate.
"What?" he shouted back.
"Thing with lid! Thing with lid! Bring me a thing with a lid!" I insisted.
I even psychically sent him a picture of a large Tupperware bowl with a blue lid. In no way do I believe in that kind of juju, but when he brought me exactly that, I totally forgot why I'd asked for it, and celebrated my apparently new psychic abilities.
"There's a mouse!" he yelled.
This brought me back to the task at hand.
I won't bore you with the following ten minutes, unless you'd like a description of every piece of furniture in my bedroom and how I moved it only to be thwarted. During this melee, every other animal in my house suddenly innately knew something they should be privy to was going down, so I was suddenly also fighting off three very insistent cats and two dogs. It's not that I didn't want their help. I mean, this was kind of their job, sure. But I was too heavily invested. I was the mouser.
He got away. Of course. And in the precious sanctity of my bedroom. I called off the search for the night, knowing this was a problem mostly likely to be revisited. I wished my mouse well. How long had he evaded a bevy of predators, one child and one stupid human? And how long could he? I actually applauded him for besting me that night. He, I decided, had moxie. Best of luck and goodnight.
"What is this thing?" I pondered. "This is a thing. I know this thing. Is this a thing that belongs in the house?"
This thing and I were staring at each other. I think the thing had moved past fear and was thinking, "What is wrong with this chick?"
Slowly, it dawned on me.
"This. Is. A. Mouse."
I declared this in my brain. Yep. Okay. Except for the next problem.
"This is a mouse. This should not be in the house. What do I do with a mouse? What would the old Mel do if she found a mouse in the house? Checking files, no files found. Had she ever found a mouse in the house? No files found again. Okay, okay, okay. So there's no recorded data on what to do."
I have no accurate perception of time anymore. What felt like three minutes could have been ten or more. But the mouse was frozen, perfectly still, and so was I.
I wasn't afraid. The only part of this interaction that startled me was my inability to identify a mouse and that now I was in a holding pattern as to how "Old Mel" would handle it. It actually pained me to have to make any sort of decision as this new self.
Well, it seemed out of character to stomp the mouse. The smartest move would be to quickly refold the sheet and throw everything outside. Except that involved, like, two steps. That was one more step than I was capable of. And it also involved ninja-like reflexes. I have the reflexes of a sleeping cow right now. Next?
"I'm not sure if Old Mel would do this or not," I thought. "I give you full permission, if you're down. The quickest way out of this, even with deadened reflexes, is to scoop up the mouse. With your hands."
Seriously. The mouse was still not moving. We were both frozen in time.
"Wait," my mind sputtered. "Is this a...wise thing to do? Like, okay, I'm about to have a live mouse in my hands, fine, but is this something a normal person would do? It's a field mouse. Does that make any difference? Hey, so the bubonic plague. That was rats. No, that was the fleas on rats. Bacteria on the fleas? Why do rats get such a bad rap? Oh! This mouse could bite me. Is that...a bad thing? Well, I don't know, but it's kind of a deal-breaker, this biting thing. I don't mind it so much, but I have a neurologist appointment on Wednesday. It might come up, the subject. And, well, I kind of have enough problems without being bitten by a random mouse I was trying to catch in my hands. Nope."
The next plan was to catch the mouse in something other than my soft and supple hands. But now I was going to have to enlist help. My brain was so overtaxed at this point, I might as well as gone to bed, but I called out to my eight-year-old kiddo.
"Hey, I need you to get a thing because there's a thing in the house!" I shouted from my bedroom to my kiddo's. This kind of vague request, simply because I didn't have the words for "container" and "mouse," produced exactly the kind of results you'd anticipate.
"What?" he shouted back.
"Thing with lid! Thing with lid! Bring me a thing with a lid!" I insisted.
I even psychically sent him a picture of a large Tupperware bowl with a blue lid. In no way do I believe in that kind of juju, but when he brought me exactly that, I totally forgot why I'd asked for it, and celebrated my apparently new psychic abilities.
"There's a mouse!" he yelled.
This brought me back to the task at hand.
I won't bore you with the following ten minutes, unless you'd like a description of every piece of furniture in my bedroom and how I moved it only to be thwarted. During this melee, every other animal in my house suddenly innately knew something they should be privy to was going down, so I was suddenly also fighting off three very insistent cats and two dogs. It's not that I didn't want their help. I mean, this was kind of their job, sure. But I was too heavily invested. I was the mouser.
He got away. Of course. And in the precious sanctity of my bedroom. I called off the search for the night, knowing this was a problem mostly likely to be revisited. I wished my mouse well. How long had he evaded a bevy of predators, one child and one stupid human? And how long could he? I actually applauded him for besting me that night. He, I decided, had moxie. Best of luck and goodnight.
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