A Mouse in the House

There’s a mouse in my house.

Or there was until my husband wrapped its furry little remains in a paper towel and put it … somewhere. I don’t actually know where; he wouldn’t tell me.

This mouse met his untimely demise at the hands of a standard household appliance - our dryer. There were some tears shed but probably not in the way you would think.

I suppose this is the part where I should mention that I am terrified of mice. 

I know it’s not a rational fear but something about their crawly, furry little bodies gives me the creeps. I don’t actively wish them harm, but I also prefer that they keep to themselves.

I don’t know where this fear stems from. I can’t recall any traumatizing incidents from my childhood that would lead to a fear of mice. I even remember that our fourth-grade class had pet rats, two of them to be exact. I’m not sure why. Was it a science project? I don’t recall.  Their names were Reeses and Spike (or something like that) and on the weekends, someone had to volunteer to bring the rats home. In an unlikely turn of events, Reeses came home with me.

I say unlikely because my mom is not an animal person. How she ended up agreeing to let a rat live with us for the weekend remains a mystery. I have a distinct memory of sitting on the basement floor with my sister, our legs spread out and feet pressed together so that Reeses could run free between us. But then Reeses crawled up my pant leg. 

I do not recommend this experience.

I could feel his furry body and long tail sliding against me, his little claws poking into my calf as he tried to find his way out. I stood abruptly trying to shake him out which only caused him to crawl further up my leg. I was seconds away from ripping my pants off entirely, but Reeses managed to scurry out, run across the floor, and then up my sister's pant leg. She sat there smiling and giggling like a psycho, like this was something that was supposed to be enjoyable. Maybe this is where it all started.

But anyway, back to the mouse.

The discovery of the vile little creature happened on a Saturday. I’d spent the afternoon working through a few loads of laundry. Our washer and dryer reside in the basement. It’s a pretty decent one as far as Duluth basements go, many of which seem to be dark, wet, and smelly. Ours is relatively dry and even has a bathroom and sleeping quarters for guests. If there’s a smell, no one has complained about it.

As I grabbed clothes and tossed them into the laundry basket to be folded, I noticed a small gray ball at the bottom of the dryer which I assumed to be dryer lint. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that this little ball of lint pinched between my fingers was in fact the corpse of a dead mouse. 

Naturally, I did what any sane person would do. I screamed. 

I tossed the mouse back into the dryer and slammed the door shut, sprinting up the stairs while letting out a series of blood curdling screams the entire way.

My husband met me in the kitchen, his eyes wide as can be. 

“THERE’S A MOUSE IN THE BASEMENT… IN THE DRYER!” I screeched, tears running down my cheeks.

“Honey…you can’t do that. It sounded like you were being murdered!”, he responded exasperatedly, pointing to the goosebumps on his arms.

As I sat in the kitchen alternating between laughing, crying, and shaking while my husband collected the remains of the mouse, I thought about how our rational minds cannot always control the reactions of our physical bodies. I know that this fear is irrational, but I’m not sure how to overcome it. Should I spend some time staring at dead mice until they no longer seem frightening? That’s morbid. I guess I could find a friend with a pet mouse who would be willing to let me practice letting the creepy little thing crawl all over me until I stopped hyperventilating and just became used to it.

I suppose I should have some sympathy for the little guy. What an awful way to go, roasting to death in a hot metal bin, tangled in some human's dirty clothes. It’s a tough gig living life as a mouse. A lot of people don’t like them. While innocently eating some cheese, they’re likely to find themselves suddenly pinned under a metal bar or trapped in goo. Death by cat doesn’t sound great either.

In other news, I’ve developed a new fear of our dryer. This morning I made my husband review its contents to ensure there was not a family of dead mice hiding out amongst the pile of clean clothes. When I fold laundry, I can feel my hands get clammy and my heart start to race as I shake out my pants and t-shirts, waiting for a little gray ball to come flying out onto the living room floor. So far, our laundry has remained mouse free. But for the time being, I’ll remain extra cautious when approaching balls of lint.