On the Lighter Side--True Story (except for "minus 30)

OK, I just have to tell someone this: Yesterday, I was sort of drowning (as you see from last post), but I was so busy writing in my journal to keep from jumping up and screaming every obscenity I know, and some I've forgotten, from the back porch that I was only vaguely aware of Cat (who hasn't got a 'real' name yet) running up and down the stairs and furiously round and round the kitchen. I thought Patch was chasing her because he does that when he's bored, but I looked up once (when the noise got a little out of control), and he was sitting by me watching the kitchen intently.
The noise IS unusual at this point, and somewhere far in the back of my mind I'm thinking of a discussion I had with Jacob on Monday about the woman in Ammon who was almost robbed recently. A man, posing as a book sales person (how dare he), shoved a gun in her ribs, tied her up, then started grabbing computers, video games, etc. and piling them by her front door. But, someone honks a car horn outside, so this guy runs out without taking any of the stuff. (What an idiot. I swear the IQ of thieves is dropping daily.) Her kids find her tied up when they get home from school--how traumatic for them. So, Jacob and I are discussing visits to locksmiths, since, let's face it, I'm never going to remember the safe place where I've hidden the key to unlock my 22, and because for some reason I've always wanted to shoot a thief (now, no gasping, please--just in the arm or leg). It's a secret dream of mine because HOW DARE THEY? I paid for my stuff, and no one, not even PresElect Obama is going to take it--unless I say so! But, hey, I'm busy writing my book to stay off the blog, like Matt Esq suggested I do, so who cares about creepo, probably meth-induced robberies, right?

OK, so I get up around midnight to hunt through my kitchen for some chocolate, and right there--between me and the kitchen--is not a thief but a mouse. Now, mice are not like snakes with me (a dead snake on my rug would have had me dialing 911), but I'm gagging, and this mouse looks like it's just faking dead. I don't want to pick it up because what if it starts squirming. The thought makes me gag twice, but I also don't want the cat throwing it up in the air again, and Patch is moving through my legs to sniff. And where did it come from anyway? I'm sure I've been "mouse-free" for years even though I know this is impossible when one lives in the middle of trees by a river, for hecks sake. But, I'M NOT PICKING THIS MOUSE UP! ... Yet, I have to get to the kitchen. Suddenly, I'm laughing hysterically, doubled over the back of the couch, because this is sort of a gift from God--the death of a rodent--to break my depression. Get it? It's so symbolic and I'm laughing so hard at myself that now I have to go to the bathroom, which means I have to pass the mouse, so I might as well pick it up, since I don't dare go upstairs and leave this dead thing down here with Patch and Cat, who sits by my feet, looking indignant, like, "Hey, I brought you a Christmas present and you dare laugh?" (I'm trying for the world's longest sentences, though I'll never beat Henry James.)

So, I edge by, carefully watching for signs of movement, wanting to call my mother, for some reason, to ask what to do, but she is terrified of mice and once stood on a kitchen chair until my dad got home because one was under our sink, and it's now past midnight for hecks sake. I grab almost a full roll of paper towels, but that's not enough, so I pad them into an old cloth towel I won't mind throwing away, while the whole time, I'm screaming at Patch and Cat to stay by me: "Don't you dare go near that mouse, or you'll be as dead as he (or she) is," but that's the problem--is this mouse dead or a great Hollywood actor in disguise? I mean his legs (I'm sure it's a "he" now, since who else would dare interrupt my depression in the middle of the night. Females know instinctively that we all work it out on our own. They quietly sympathize, then leave us alone, bless their hearts. And, no fair jumping on that sexist remark) are sticking straight up, and his eyes are closed, but...who knows? So, I loosely cover him with a mountain of "stuff," and gingerly gather him up--because I swear if he's faking it and starts moving around, I'll throw him and towels and run for Canada, which means he could land stuck on the ceiling and stay there clear through Christmas (remember, it's past midnight, and I'm not thinking too clearly, nor would you under said circumstances).

Now, I'm carrying him--with my head turned sideways--convinced he's suffocated by if he truly wasn't dead--and head for the garbage can; but wait, I can't leave him in a can inside my house! But, how can I put him down to find shoes because he could still be faking death and suddenly run out from underneath the towels? I mean who knows? There’s been a lot of fake stuff happen in my life. So, I open the garage door, with two fingers, my head still turned sideways, and walk out in the snow to throw a dead rodent into my garbage can-- whose lid is frozen shut. I kick the can hard with my bare feet and bang my shoulder against it, because I'm not putting this mouse down for anything. And do you know how stinkin' cold it is here? Minus 30 without wind-chill (slightly exaggerated for effect). I finally run clear to the fence behind the shed and throw him--towels and all--into the big gully, and on my frozen run back, I'm wondering, "Is that littering?" which my dad taught us never to do.

I LOVE CAT. She is now playing with the colored lights that swirl around my floor from the crystals hanging from the windows (like in Pollyanna). She is truly one of the Great Females in my life right now. She's resting. I'm saving the rest of the mice (such as there is) for Em to catch, so she won't ever be bored living here in Ice City.