Several (and by ‘several’ I mean ‘seventeen’) years ago a small gray field mouse moved into my parent’s house during the coldest days of winter. The idea of having a mouse in the house didn’t bother me much…until it darted out from under the bathroom door and ran across the top of my bare feet. Much screaming occurred…I’m not proud of it but at least I’ll admit to it.
A few days later the mouse was once again cornered in the bathroom and at my mother’s insistence my father (the brave warrior that he is…*cough*) was determined to catch the poor creature so that it could be released in the yard. With no real plan in mind my father barricaded himself in the bathroom, instructing me to hold a towel across the bottom of the door to prevent the mouse from squeezing its way out of the bathroom. My father then valiantly gave chase to his fuzzy adversary, pursuing his enemy with …the plunger. Words fail me when it comes to describing the sounds that a plunger makes when it is repeatedly being stamped down onto a linoleum floor and then wrenched skyward again. After several minutes the battle was over and my father stood victorious…a piece of sturdy cardboard clamped under the plunger and the mouse trapped securely inside. Our little visitor was then dumped unceremoniously onto the frozen grass and darted away into the cold darkness of a winter night.
But I’m sure that somewhere in the woods surrounding our neighborhood, that mouse’s great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandchildren are plotting their revenge.
A few days later the mouse was once again cornered in the bathroom and at my mother’s insistence my father (the brave warrior that he is…*cough*) was determined to catch the poor creature so that it could be released in the yard. With no real plan in mind my father barricaded himself in the bathroom, instructing me to hold a towel across the bottom of the door to prevent the mouse from squeezing its way out of the bathroom. My father then valiantly gave chase to his fuzzy adversary, pursuing his enemy with …the plunger. Words fail me when it comes to describing the sounds that a plunger makes when it is repeatedly being stamped down onto a linoleum floor and then wrenched skyward again. After several minutes the battle was over and my father stood victorious…a piece of sturdy cardboard clamped under the plunger and the mouse trapped securely inside. Our little visitor was then dumped unceremoniously onto the frozen grass and darted away into the cold darkness of a winter night.
But I’m sure that somewhere in the woods surrounding our neighborhood, that mouse’s great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandchildren are plotting their revenge.
1 comment:
I can *so* picture this scene... your dad, that little bathroom, a tiny mouse, and the sound of a plunger! I laughed myself silly!!!
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