Dazed and Terrified

June 2, 2009

Last night I was sitting at my laptop thinking, "Wow, since the kids have gotten out of school, I really haven't had many topics or much time to blog." No sooner than that thought crossed my mind, I heard a lot of frantic scuffling upstairs.

"It's a... It's a..."

"What is it, Daddy?"

"Go to your rooms, run!"

I thought about just letting this one play out without my intervention, but decided it was probably worth investigating, if only to see if it was a blog-able moment.

I shouted up, "What is it?" To which Jason (in a shaky voice) replied, "It's a mouse! I think it's dead. I don't know what to do with it. Maybe we should get a box..."

In totally un-Lianne-like fashion, I grabbed the broom and dustpan on a stick (not to be confused with the Jalapeno on a stick--I love that guy!), and said, "I'm coming up. Where is it?" I warily trudged up the steps as Jason answered, "It's right there, on the stairs! I'm freaking out!"

I spied the mouse, curled up next to one of the risers, totally motionless. A few moments later, I spied Jason, who was also standing motionless some 10 feet away from the presumably dead rodent, as if it had the plague or a semi-automatic handgun.With all due caution, I approached the critter. His eyes were open, yet he was completely still. I said in a hushed voice, "I think he's dead." I eased the dustpan open and slowly edged it towards the tiny beast. The thought went through my head that he should probably be belly-up with the dramatic rigor mortis setting in...

Then...

It.MOVED.

Without looking to see if Jason was still breathing, I mumbled, "Um, yeah, he's alive, REALLY alive."

I suppose that he may have gotten in to the poison that our pest control guy put out earlier this spring to take care of the weird scratching noises we had heard in the attic. More than anything, the little guy appeared to be dazed or drunk.I threw caution to the wind. I POKED it with the broom bristles.
(Dramatic re-enaction:)
It wrapped its tail a little tighter around itself, but didn't move from its hidey-hole in plain sight. I carefully made the dustpan look like a friendly little on-ramp. Then, I shepherded the thing forward with my magic broom:
No, not that magic broom and mouse... Anyhow, it strolled right into that dustpan like it was the most natural thing it had ever done. Jason let out a big sigh. I had not yet started breathing again. (That only started back about 90 minutes later, give or take an hour.)

With crazed, bulging eyes, I looked at Jason and asked through clenched teeth, "What.Do.I.Do.With.IT.NOW???"

He says in utter seriousness, "I don't know...Flush it?"

(The thought had crossed my mind, but I couldn't do it in good conscience.)

I jokingly suggested, "I could put it in a bag and you could stomp on it."

Without waiting for Jason's color to come back, I started down the stairs and out the front door, all the while holding the dustpan closed with the broom. I don't think I blinked once. As I opened the door, Jason, still upstairs and not even attempting to come down, asks "Do you need some help?" I whimpered in reply and stepped outside.

I went down the driveway, down the street, and to the cul-de-sac farthest from any houses, but under a streetlight so I could see. I unceremoniously dumped the little freeloader and mentally shook my fist at it. It looked up at me expectantly, as if it knew something bad was coming.

So...

I poked it with my broom.

It ran the other direction, hopefully never to be seen again.