Erica Lucke Dean

"Making the world a better place, one book at a time."

another mouse bites the dust

Ok, things in the haunted farmhouse have gotten out of hand. And I'm not just talking about the faulty wiring, but let's just say, I'm tired of living in an episode of Little House on the Prairie. No, what I'm really referring to is the mice. As I sit here, propped up in my bed, surfing the net...I mean, writing my final guest posts...I'm listening to what sounds like the opening scenes of West Side Story going on inside my walls.

"When you're a mouse, you're a mouse all the way, from your first piece of cheese, to your last dying day..."

So maybe the music is all in my head, but the fancy footwork is definitely all mouse. And these are no Disney mice. They're hooligans. I swear, I hear a full-on rumble going on. I can practically see them whipping out their little rodent switchblades as they dance around each other squeaking out Stephen Sondheim lyrics.

(Long pause as I listen)

They're going at it again. This time I know I hear them squealing. But maybe not the lyrics from West Side Story. It might be more along the lines of a scene from Willard. And Ben is leading the pack. I'm afraid to close my eyes. I may wake up to find them surrounding me, arms loaded with traps and sticky pads, ready to drag me off to the basement. They do that in New York City, you know. The rats there are so big, they've taken entire families out of their beds at night, never to be seen again. I read about that while standing in line at the grocery store.

I'm going to blame my hus...I mean, the IDP for this. It was his idea to set out traps. We even snagged a few of them. But those that got free have obviously sent for reinforcements. The cat caught one in the dining room last night, and made a show of feasting on him, out in the open, as a warning to the others. And now that cat is missing.

I smell a rodent uprising. This might be scarier than the pigs! Ok, forget the IDP, I blame George Orwell for putting these ideas in my head. If I hadn't read Animal Farm in middle school, I might not be having panic attacks about ducks, and pigs, and mice (oh my!) plotting my gruesome demise like an animated version of Tales from the Crypt.

Or maybe I just need to lay off the wine at bedtime.

Either way, I think it's time we called in a professional to take care of the mice. According to Bugs Bunny, we either need a lion, or an exterminator. Or a way bigger trap.

Until the next time...I'll be sleeping with one eye open!

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