The Sunday Memory Drawer - Mouse in the House

Everybody remember Sniffles the Mouse?  A very popular Warner Brothers cartoon character and one of my favorites.  I love the cartoon where he tries to stay up and wait for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve.

Sniffles was adorable.  Not so much the mouse that lived in our house when I was a kid.  Don't jump the gun here.  My family home was not infested with vermin.  We were actually pretty clean, almost Felix Unger-like.  But, one autumn, a mouse came into our residence.  Likely to get out of the oncoming cold weather.  And, for almost three years, this little creature drove us crazy.

It all started very quietly.  My mother went over to our pantry closet to get a box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.  The corner of the box had little holes in it.  Tiny teeth marks.  Just the sight of this made her scream, drop the box onto the floor, and take to the bed.

I'm not going to have macaroni and cheese tonight.

"No, WE'VE GOT A MOUSE IN THE HOUSE."

Oh.

While my mother was ready to set fire to the entire building, everybody else took a passive approach.  Always the way my father handled everything.  Slowly and systematically.

"He'll go away on his own."

He?  Are you sure, Dad?  How do you know it's not a girl mouse?

"Don't ask stupid questions."

Oh.

This gnawing problem went on for several days.  Spaghetti boxes.  Cereal packets.  Cookie bags. 

So, Mom, the mouse is smart enough not to try his teeth on a can of peas.

"Go ask your father."

Dad.

"Don't ask stupid questions."

My father did finally pick up the gauntlet and begin the attack on the ravenous little creature, who I envisioned was going to have to embark on a low-fat diet very soon.  Just like in the cartoons I was watching every afternoon, a trap was set with some cheese. 

By the next morning, the trap was still there.  The cheese was gone.  Not only was this mouse an overeater, he also understands the dynamics of basic machine operation.  Another trap was set.  The cheese disappeared again.

Given the way he was eluding capture, the mouse must have started to feel pretty darn sure of himself.  He started to make personal appearances out in public.  The first time was a command performance for my beagle Tuffy.

Luckily, my mother was not home as this experience would have sent her to a hotel for a week.  I had walked into the kitchen for a snack.  There, smack in the middle of the kitchen linoleum was the rodent.  In a staredown with my dog. 

Neither moved for what seemed to be an eternity, but probably was no more than ten seconds.  They locked in a mortal gaze.  Tuffy finally growled.  The mouse quickly scurried off.  Tuffy, hero dog that she was, scampered off as well.  In the opposite direction.  The entire scenario had scared her enough that she retreated to her sleeping box and buried her head under her blanket.

Now, since the mouse had free passage all over the wooden inner frame of our two-story house, it was inevitable that he would start to branch out.  And, the very next day, Sunday afternoon quiet time was interrupted by a shout in German from downstairs.

Grandma.

I didn't understand the first words she yelled.  But the rest was plainly in English.

"GET OUT OF HERE, YOU STUPID, GODDAMN THING!"

I ran downstairs to find Grandma in her kitchen waving a broom around the floor.  There was nothing there.  But, for a brief moment, the mouse had taken a bow in front of my grandmother's pantry. 

"I'M GONNA KILL THAT SONOFABITCH!"

She never got the chance to. 

The drama lasted one more week.  For a few days, there was nothing.  The next mouse trap with cheese had gone untouched and uneaten.  There were no more sightings either in front of Tuffy or Grandma.  Perhaps the rodent had packed his bags and headed off to a fat farm.  Or perhaps got lost somewhere in the woodwork. 

All was calm the next Sunday morning as my father was making raisin toast.  He dropped two slices of bread into the appliance.  Suddenly, smoke seeped out of the opening.  And there was a distinct aroma of burning fur.

Yep.

Looking for the big Kahuna of crumbs, the mouse had somehow slipped into our toaster.  And did a wonderful impersonation of Bruno Hauptmann.

My dad unplugged the toaster and took it away to wherever you take appliances that have electrocuted mice. 

Two days later, I noticed the toaster was back in its place.  I thought it was the same one.  Nah, couldn't be.  Likely, my father had gone out to buy the exact same model.  But, still, the very next Sunday, it was time again for raisin toast and I had to ask.

Is that...?

"You ask too many stupid questions."

I don't want to think about it.

Dinner last night:  General Tso's Chicken at La Mandarette.