What do you do when there’s a mouse in your house?
It was just after twelve and I was curled up on the couch, channel surfing through early morning tv, when I spotted the small, furry, pad-footed intruder, scurrying across the hearth of the fire place. I froze, crushing my eyelids together, hoping it wasn’t real…not now, not when I’ve got nowhere to go, not when I’m the manliest person in the house with the gumption to deal with this. What on earth do I do?
This isn't the first time I've had run-ins with fuzzy houseguests. In my student home there was William and Elizableth, two garbage hoarders that our pacifist cat Jack liked to catch and release. Then there was Edward, the two-inch ball of white lightning that lived in the living room couch in Tanzania (note: custom-made roadside furniture often comes with inhabitants). And now Jean-Marc, the first mouse bold enough to risk squatting in the house of the most musophobic (look it up) woman I've ever called Mom.
So like all good pacifist, vegetarian, city girls, I did a panicky little dance and then barricaded the doorway between the den and the kitchen with a card-table, some 2x4s, and electrical tape. Mum and dad get home in four days.