Real encounters with the small kind
This old church building really does have mice, but there are poison traps and sonic barriers to keep them away, so we haven't seen any evidence of them since we first moved in. However, some folks from the church were recently cleaning out a storage space that had not been touched in a long time, and I think they must have stirred things up.
The other day I walked into my kitchen, opened my dishwasher door, and just before I put my full weight on my right foot, I felt something soft under it, and I jumped back. All I saw at first was that it was dark, larger than most bugs, and moving! I let out the classical bloodcurdling scream.
Then I saw that it was a mouse.
And that he was kind of cute.
And that he was staring at me as intensely as I was staring at him.
We both stood there frozen to the spot for a good two minutes. I was recovering from my fright, and racking my brains for a way to both keep from hurting him and keep him from getting into the rest of the house, or going back to where he came from only to return again.
When I started to move, I moved very slowly (my heart still pounding).
I eased my way over to the cupboard and softly took out a used yoghurt tub.
The mouse didn't bolt.
I stretched gingerly over to the counter for the scissors, and began to poke holes in the lid while keeping half an eye on him.
He moved a little, wiggling his nose and adjusting his position but stayed where he was.
I (half determined, half skittish) moved closer and closer until I was able lower the container down over top of him, trapping him inside it. He didn't blink. He was still definitely alive: whiskers wiggling, ears twitching. I experienced considerable misgivings about my endeavor when his tail was sticking out from underneath the container and that was all that I could see of him. His tail was not nearly as cute as the rest of him.
I took a piece of cardboard and slid it underneath the container gently, and heard him scramble onto it as he ran out of room to stand. Then I slowly turned him upside down and replaced the cardboard with the lid.
I stood there holding the container for a while trying to sort out my conflicting impulses of disgust and maternal nurturing, my sense of public health responsibility and my sympathy for all things persecuted and misunderstood.
Then Matthew came home.
We took him outside and let him crawl into a shady spot at the base of some lilacs at the bottom of the church lawn, entrusting him to his own fate. Poor little fellow.
We figured out that he must have eaten some poison and was so content and blasé because he was extremely high.
I hope he didn't suffer too much.
He was so cute and soft and furry and brown looking.
The other day I walked into my kitchen, opened my dishwasher door, and just before I put my full weight on my right foot, I felt something soft under it, and I jumped back. All I saw at first was that it was dark, larger than most bugs, and moving! I let out the classical bloodcurdling scream.
Then I saw that it was a mouse.
And that he was kind of cute.
And that he was staring at me as intensely as I was staring at him.
We both stood there frozen to the spot for a good two minutes. I was recovering from my fright, and racking my brains for a way to both keep from hurting him and keep him from getting into the rest of the house, or going back to where he came from only to return again.
When I started to move, I moved very slowly (my heart still pounding).
I eased my way over to the cupboard and softly took out a used yoghurt tub.
The mouse didn't bolt.
I stretched gingerly over to the counter for the scissors, and began to poke holes in the lid while keeping half an eye on him.
He moved a little, wiggling his nose and adjusting his position but stayed where he was.
I (half determined, half skittish) moved closer and closer until I was able lower the container down over top of him, trapping him inside it. He didn't blink. He was still definitely alive: whiskers wiggling, ears twitching. I experienced considerable misgivings about my endeavor when his tail was sticking out from underneath the container and that was all that I could see of him. His tail was not nearly as cute as the rest of him.
I took a piece of cardboard and slid it underneath the container gently, and heard him scramble onto it as he ran out of room to stand. Then I slowly turned him upside down and replaced the cardboard with the lid.
I stood there holding the container for a while trying to sort out my conflicting impulses of disgust and maternal nurturing, my sense of public health responsibility and my sympathy for all things persecuted and misunderstood.
Then Matthew came home.
We took him outside and let him crawl into a shady spot at the base of some lilacs at the bottom of the church lawn, entrusting him to his own fate. Poor little fellow.
We figured out that he must have eaten some poison and was so content and blasé because he was extremely high.
I hope he didn't suffer too much.
He was so cute and soft and furry and brown looking.
posted by mamachurchmouse at 01:32
4 Comments:
oh no! poor mouse; of course i did not think poor mouse when i had them in my studio a year ago in london...
i'm sure he was sick--usually a mouse moves quickly... poor thing.
good that you got him OUT though.
pray for me! i have a huge assignment due monday and i am loath to begin it again...
I love that you cut holes in the lid before trapping him!
You are SO considerate.
I am think I like you!
oh cheryl, i laughed out loud when you said you paused to cut holes in the container. as if you were going to keep him in it as a pet. and as though you had thought it out and considered that he would be terrified if you cut holes whilst he was within the container.
ugh. unfortunately my parents' house is experiencing an unprecedented infestation of the pests. my stay has been punctuated by scratchings in my ceiling, and this morning i awoke to a stench in the living room from a mouse caught in a trap...my faithful and heroic dad, who would normally assume this sort of cleanup task, is away. so i tied an old rag around my nose and mouth, donned rubber gloves and disposed of the beastie and also the trap (that way i only had to touch the trap, not the limp and bloated body of, let me add, a very BIG mouse.
the pest control people came upon my parents' invitation and there are traps in all the flower beds and window wells. why couldn't the beastie have gone outside and had a little poison snack in one of their black boxes rather than in my dad's traditional mousetrap?
I must confess that cutting the holes, though partially motivated by humane consideration, was also motivated by a desire to see what he was doing in there--or rather--a fear of not being able to see him but knowing he was there...
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