Confessions of a Mouse Murderer

Theme song: Psycho theme

It started innocently enough when my neighbor came to me in, not exactly a panic. Let us say, her senses and emotions were heightened.

She wanted the landlord's number because she'd found a mouse in her house.

I knew we were next, but I was wrong.

I was to find out, later, that another neighbor found a mouse in her kitchen before I found ours (see below). These neighbors chose voice and email as their weapons of choice. I emailed my landlord, too, but it turns out I have a dark side even darker than I knew.

I don't know exactly why, but mice turn me into a shrieking, adrenaline-addled (homicidal) maniac. At least I knew this was coming. Otherwise, we don't know what would have become of me.

I think I may have already told you that my older son has set a $1 million fine for each time I shriek. The reason is, pretty much no matter what happens, he is more frightened by my shrieking than whatever the actual crisis is (armed robber, plane crash -- you name it).

When first I saw the mouse, I shrieked, but I kept it kind of guttural. Unfortunately, the children have good ears. But I insisted on a pass because, after all, there was a mouse in the house.

It was HUGE! Not only that, it had enormous, glistening fangs that it bared at me as it ran at me, switchblade in hand, combat boots on its feet. The thing picked up speed as it raced toward me. It was terrifying!

I was prepared to sweep it out of the house, but it ran behind the dishwasher, so all I was left with were the heebie jeebies.

There I am, sitting on the couch, trying to squeeze in a little more work before bedtime, when Laura spies the BEAST running along the floorboard under my computer. OH, no!

I get my older son and I'm, like, "If you're so tough and cool, how 'bout you trap this combat boot wearing, switch blade swinging thing thing with a glass?" He declined.

Some confusion followed, with the mouse moving behind the printer, ripping the power supply out from the wall with its glistening fangs, it again veering towards me, same evil fangs bared, before it turned tail under a basket, where it became trapped (thank God!).

I said, "Laura, grab the broom!" She did.

I took that broom and wildly pressed down on the floor of the basket and, yes, I heard the mouse screaming and, yes, I heard its mousie bones crunching. The zinging music in the background was just like Psycho.

It really makes me sick to think of it.

That is, I believe, when I let out the motherlode of all shrieks, scaring the pajamas off my younger son, who was supposed to be sleeping. I ran to his room, comforted him, murderous heart pounding, cold sweat prickling my spine, and went to assess the damage.

And there it was, its blood smeared across my floor.

You can see from the image that mousie fought for his or her life.

See the pathetic little hand, grasping for life?

(Aside: This is, of course, how we all are -- unreasonably grasping for life, leaving behind cold bodies that may or may not show our struggle.)

I did not clean up the mouse last night. I feared it was not dead and it would, once again, rise up and try to hunt me down. Or, maybe, it would become a zombie and come after me as a I slept.

Perhaps its whole family (this is actually most likely), will come back to avenge mousie's untimely death.

This morning, I had to clean it up and I was still scared. I donned plastic gloves and got a wad of toilet paper. I half expected mousie to roar back to life and attack me as I held him or her by the tale and composted him or her. (I even washed the gloves when I was done -- not to hide the evidence but because, I who do not fear germs thought maybe mousie cells left on the gloves would regenerate and a whole army of Terminator style, revenge seeking mice would come after me.)

At the last minute, my shaking hand dropped him or her in front of the compost, and I heard his or her body hit the ground with a faint smack. Gross.

Resolution?

The truth is, I had always, as a meat eater, planned to kill an animal. It was on my bucket list.

It seemed to me out of place that I would eat animals but fear killing them.

I had expected to kill something more like a chicken, but, I guess as an urbanite I just kill what comes my way.

It was, in fact, upsetting to kill the mouse. It made me feel sad and nauseous. Yet, I did not feel I had a real alternative. I don't think letting my apartment become infested with mice is the way to go, although it may be too late. It could be that I'm going to be in the killing business for awhile now.

It's interesting to note how I, who ostensibly do not fear death, was so afraid of a dead body. Or that I would feel guilty for having killed the mouse with my bare broom and basket when I dine lustily on steak with nary a thought as I drag my naked hand across bloody lips. I have never, for instance, felt concern that all the dead cows would rise up zombie-like and hunt me down in my bed.

I mean, sitting in my living room now, working away, I am seeing shadow mice out of of the corner of my eye. It's creepy.

I guess all you can say is: People are strange, and I'm one of 'em.

This foray into killing has shown me that I don't like to kill. It's not fun for me. And I really feel bad for people who have done a lot of killing. If I feel haunted, I can only imagine how it must be for them.

My younger son and Laura concluded that I had done the right thing. Laura even said that a mouse like that, appearing fearlessly in full light, viciously running towards me, was probably ill and bringing disease such as rabies into our home. I scoffed at that, but, really, what do I know?

My older son has yet to forgive me.

Your Turn

Have you ever killed? What was it like for you?