In Which Mouse Crisp Occurs
Yesterday I broiled a mouse. Or baked him. It could quite possibly have been more of a slow roast. I'm not sure. It was accidental.
I swear it was accidental.
Although if I had found His Mousiness still alive and kicking in my broiler drawer, I'm not quite sure what I would've done. Screamed bloody murder and called in the snipers? Or just screamed bloody murder and called in the neighbors.
As it was, I screamed bloody murder when his well toasted tail snapped off in my paper-toweled hand as I tried to remove his dead carcass from my previously rodent free home.
Incidentally, when your somewhat relatively even tempered mommy screams bloody murder and you are only one and a half, you may start to sob uncontrollably and be sent to your room, hence missing the rest of the completely thrilling de-mousing of the oven. This could cause latent trauma.
At any rate, I will never get over the grossness. But I treasure this in my heart: I took care of it myself. It's the small victories, people.
With that said, I am now wondering if I should wash every single dish in my kitchen and get rid of any and all food that could have possibly been anywhere in the vicinity of said mouse, not to mention the fact that I spent a good hour last night wondering if there was an entire mouse army coming to avenge the death of their fallen brother by shoving me into the oven and leaving me there to slowly burn to a crisp. Don't ever accuse me of not taking things seriously.
Incidentally, the Redwall books, anything by Beatrix Potter, and Stuart Little are all dead to me. And no, I will not give a mouse a cookie. But I did concede defeat and lovingly read Tiny's Big Adventure to the boys tonight, seeing as Littles has recovered from whatever emotional scarring he incurred and is now fascinated by the fact that there was a mouse in our home.
And the moral of the story is the next time a mouse decides to entertain himself by scouting out my kitchen, he'd better hope his name is Shadrach, Meshach, or Abednego, because that sucker is going to be thrown into the fiery furnace.
I swear it was accidental.
Although if I had found His Mousiness still alive and kicking in my broiler drawer, I'm not quite sure what I would've done. Screamed bloody murder and called in the snipers? Or just screamed bloody murder and called in the neighbors.
As it was, I screamed bloody murder when his well toasted tail snapped off in my paper-toweled hand as I tried to remove his dead carcass from my previously rodent free home.
Incidentally, when your somewhat relatively even tempered mommy screams bloody murder and you are only one and a half, you may start to sob uncontrollably and be sent to your room, hence missing the rest of the completely thrilling de-mousing of the oven. This could cause latent trauma.
At any rate, I will never get over the grossness. But I treasure this in my heart: I took care of it myself. It's the small victories, people.
With that said, I am now wondering if I should wash every single dish in my kitchen and get rid of any and all food that could have possibly been anywhere in the vicinity of said mouse, not to mention the fact that I spent a good hour last night wondering if there was an entire mouse army coming to avenge the death of their fallen brother by shoving me into the oven and leaving me there to slowly burn to a crisp. Don't ever accuse me of not taking things seriously.
Incidentally, the Redwall books, anything by Beatrix Potter, and Stuart Little are all dead to me. And no, I will not give a mouse a cookie. But I did concede defeat and lovingly read Tiny's Big Adventure to the boys tonight, seeing as Littles has recovered from whatever emotional scarring he incurred and is now fascinated by the fact that there was a mouse in our home.
And the moral of the story is the next time a mouse decides to entertain himself by scouting out my kitchen, he'd better hope his name is Shadrach, Meshach, or Abednego, because that sucker is going to be thrown into the fiery furnace.
