Remember when a mouse was something you caught in a trap and didn't want to touch? When I was a kid, checking Mom's mouse trap line was my least favorite chore. I didn't mind dust mopping, washing dishes, or carrying pails of water from the wellhouse, but I dreaded checking the trap line, especially when the mouse's beady black eyes stared into mine. Mom's favorite place to set traps was the pantry. Ours was a small room with a pie safe, a wooden table, and plenty of storage boxes nailed to the wall.
Our farmhouse was typical of most. There were lots of places where mice could squeeze through and look for winter lodging. Over the years, I've come to realize that we were luckier than many folks. Rarely did a rodent venture near our pantry and never did a varmint enter our living quarters. One of my lady friends is always finding a dead mouse in her shoe, underneath her bed, or nibbling some delicacy on her kitchen counter. Her cat gets his daily exercise and entertainment by chasing mice, pouncing on them, and slapping them with his paws. When he gets bored, he eats them.
In today's society, having a rodent in the house is a common practice. Some folks buy mice and rats as pets for their children, a phenomenon beyond my understanding. Years ago housewives were embarrassed if they saw a furry gray thing scurry across the room. This was especially true if company stopped by for morning coffee. No one wanted to admit a mouse was on the loose in their kitchen, and heaven forbid if something was heard running through the rafters.
It's the same with lice. People were horrified if their kid came home scratching his head, but now lice are accepted as a normal part of grade school. This amazes me. When and why did we get so complacent about things as repulsive as mice and lice? My reaction to these pests borders on phobic, but that's how I was raised. Rodents were not allowed in the house, and lice were a scourge forbidden near our heads.
Throughout grade school, I recall only one louse episode. The infected kids stayed home until all signs of nits were kerosened out of their heads. I remember feeling sorry for the kiddies. Mom explained it wasn't their fault, and we shouldn't mention it to anyone. People were easily humiliated in those days. An outbreak of lice was unthinkable. Today it's as natural as a recess break.
Well anyway, when I checked Mom's trap line and found a mouse I didn't care that it was dead. It didn't belong in the house so it got what it deserved. It wasn't the lifeless rodent I couldn't stand, it was the idea of touching a furry dead thing. I could swat a fly or squish a mosquito and think nothing of it, but no way would I remove a mouse from a trap. Likewise, Dad and my siblings wouldn't go near the thing, but it didn't bother Mom. She was our fearless hero.
I'm still squeamish about mice. Last year, I set a trap in one of the cold air ducts in my trailer and a mouse wondered in seeking shelter. I heard the trap snap, but it didn't finish off the vagrant. For an hour I listened to it flop around. Finally I called a friend and asked for help. When she arrived, I was ready. I had kitchen tongs and a pail of water waiting. My friend grabbed the trap with the tongs, deposited it in the water, and waited a few seconds. Then she removed the drowned mouse and threw it outside where it should have stayed in the first place.
In conclusion, whether you're a mouse or a human, it's an awful thing to get caught in a trap. Sometimes there's just no way out. You flop around, trying your best to wiggle free. You toss this way and that, but you're out of luck unless someone comes to your rescue. Then life is good and a trap is just a harmless piece of wood with a spring and hammer, and a mouse is merely a tool you push around to navigate the Internet.
I'd be lost without my little black mouse, words I never dreamed would tumble from my lips.
You know what I mean don’t you?