I am the animal killer. Animal collector. Animal....something. Maybe it's from hibernating in the polar vortex for nearly six months, and I'm just noticing these fuzzy little creatures more now since I'm not looking through windows covered in frost. Maybe there's some kind of strange karma directing all these creature deaths my way to pay me back for squashing that spider with glee this winter while trying to peacefully pee.
It started with the mouse. Oh yes, the mouse. Living in a 110 year old house, in a very rural area, I am familiar with mice. Usually in the form of their corpses left for me to admire by the cat with the shit eating grin. I can't even call them corpses, since it's only hindquarters and tails I find. Apparently, the cat is a zombie cat who likes mouse brains because he devours their heads as soon as he's played with them to the death.
Well, this particular mouse had superpowers. It started on an early morning, finding the cat sitting in the middle of the floor with that shit eating grin on his face. Knowing that grin, I started scanning the floor for the mouse corpse. And oh yes, there about two feet behind him is Mr. Mouse. Except it's ALL of Mr. Mouse, and his eyes are open. So, figuring Mr. Mouse is injured and playing 'possum (because FatCat doesn't chase 'possums, no sir), I yell for hubby to grab a bucket so I can at least give Mr. Mouse a fighting chance at life by scooping him up and tossing him outside. Oh no. Mr. Mouse scampers away gleefully while FatCat just sits there with what I now think of as a dumbass grin. I had a stern talking to with FatCat, and we came to an understanding that he would do better next time.
Another day, another dollar (not really), but I left for work with FatCat eyeballing the couch waiting patiently, so I expected to come home to mouse corpse. He is after all, FatCat who has never made us actually have to buy a mouse trap, so I trusted his skills and forgave him his momentary lapse in judgement.
Arriving home that evening, I scour the floors looking for mouse corpse, but nope, nothing. Assuming (haha, I have so learned my lesson on assuming) that FatCat has scared Mr. Mouse into actually finding his way back OUT of the house.
Another day passes, life goes on, I'm merrily thinking I'll load some dishes into my dishwasher. Mr. Mouse is forgotten. FatCat is living a life of leisure. No worries.
WRONG.
I open the dishwasher door, and THERE...hanging like a magic trapeze artist, is Mr. Mouse on the top rack. I screech and slam that door shut immediately. Then stand there staring at the door asking myself what the fuck am I going to do, and why the hell did I just let a little mouse reduce me to a bowl of jelly, lame-o, screech girl?
Well, OF COURSE, I text one of my friends immediately. I text my hubby (who of course is not home when this kind of shit happens), I text my daughter. My friend, being a true after my own heart, sick and twisted individual, tells me to start the damn dishwasher and boil the fucker. I'm skeeved out, and thinking I'm really not THAT mean to animals. I like fuzzy creatures. I don't WANT to boil them. But then the thought of actually looking for the mouse in the dishwasher runs through my head. I've been reading Stephen King since I was 13, and thoughts of a rabid mouse making a leap for my eyeballs runs through my head.
I gather my courage (yeah right, it's called being alone in the house for the next several hours and just needing to take care of shit), and tiptoe up to the dishwasher with FatCat in my hands. I'm whispering in his ear that he will get homemade treats if he'll just get Mr. Mouse once and for all. I set FatCat down, where he promptly yawns. Asshole. I open the door wide, and run out of the room. I've got a great plan going here.
Ten minutes later, thinking I've given Mr. Mouse ample time to save himself, I root around in the dishwasher with handy BBQ tongs and then slam that door shut and start it up. I wait, expecting to hear an awful grinding noise start. FatCat sits at my feet, expecting treats and I tell him to fuck off.
Dishwasher finishes after nervous pacing and worrying from me. Not really, but it sound's good. I carefully open the door, just in case Mr. Mouse has somehow survived drowning and boiling and is waiting to eat my eyeballs.
Nothing.
No sign of him anywhere.
Just scrubbing and more cycles run to satisfy myself that all mouse germs are gone.
He is no longer Mr. Mouse. He is Supermouse. He becomes a legend of epic proportions. He gains internet fame...or, at least as far as my friends list reaches on Facebook. It becomes comical, and I'm able to relish in the humor of it instead of wondering where the damn Supermouse is. Sort of. I DO catch myself opening each drawer and cupboard slowly and with an expectation of Flying Supermouse.
Days pass, more dishes are done. Cooking commences and kitchen is cleaned in a fit of "dirty mouse house" rage.
Then...
I open the dishwasher and what do I see?
Mouse shit.
At least this time, no mouse. But, I AM wondering how the hell Supermouse is even getting in there. And with boys leaving crumbs on the counter because toast is NEVER made on a plate, the more important question is coming to mind. WHY.
I shame the cat. He meows. And walks away.
I call hubby and order...DEMAND...mouse traps. I'll show you, Supermouse. Yes, I will buy mouse traps for the first time in five years. I WILL admit defeat.
His neck was snapped by morning. I didn't even feel bad. Because, by the time he was killed, Supermouse had turned into Gluttonmouse. He was FAT. He had been living high on the hog with his plate scrapings and bowl chunks. He was nearly as fat as FatCat. Which pretty much answered all my questions right there.
FatCat and Gluttonmouse actually worked out a deal to share all the food in the house.
FatCat hasn't been given a treat since. I should have catshamed him with a picture next to Gluttonmouse's corpse. But he probably would have chowed down on the fat mouse head that was cleaved in two.
Asshole.
This is going to be good.
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