Last night I was up later than I should have been sitting at my small dining room table with the sun faded flea market tablecloth that I and should get rid of but don’t. The lights were on bright and in the kitchen. I was working on my writing to post for the next day. I had started a couple of options, but was not loving them.
I pondered if I should check the weather for tomorrow real quick or pause to appreciate the vitality of flowers on the table left over from a gathering with friends from a week and a half ago. I glanced to my side towards the kitchen. I was not seeing what I was seeing; perhaps I was just sleepy. Nope – it was a mouse. He noticed me, noticing him and quickly scurried back behind the refrigerator. Really? Really? I did not have time for this, I had meaningful words I needed to write.
When it comes to mice and a 1943 Cape Cod house, the idea of a relationship is not entirely shocking. Over my twelve years of ownership and mostly living here, there have been a few other mouse and house relationships. These relationships did not end particularly well. I suffered some emotion angst and needless to say the mice were not happy either. The difference with those relationships was that they all happened in my basement. This mouse somehow thought my well swept kitchen floor was worthy of an investigation. My kitchen is a mere six feet from my bedroom. At this rate I was so not going to get any sleep or writing done.
Ok, deep breath, quick pee break and down to the basement I descended. After some searching, I returned with a mouse trap and reached for the peanut butter. I should have one of those live capture traps, but there was no store open at that hour and I needed to sleep. So I set the trap and went back to my attempt at writing. Just get the writing done quickly, go to bed and deal with whatever happens in the morning.
One does not have to be proud of everything they do in life, whether it is a piece of writing or mouse problem.