I squealed. I squealed LOUDLY, left the sink running full blast, jumped up on the stool I keep to get to the infrequently-used spices, and did all I knew to do: I screamed for J.
This is the first mouse we’ve had in a very long time. We had a
J started working till 6pm each night, I accumulated more and more after-work derby meetings, and we didn’t show up one month to meet Frank, our exterminator, on our predetermined monthly day at our predetermined monthly time. He took care of the outside, billed us, and I left his answering service a message that said we needed to alter our time and to call me back on my cell phone (he calls during work hours when I’m not home, and I wanted to get a hold of him).
Frank called back, but he called our home phone. Phone tag ensued, where I kept saying “don’t call our home number – call my cell, 443-…” I halfway gave up. We got a bill in the mail for the last time he came to our house, I meant to pay and include a note, but I never did. I called back with the same message, only now we no longer have our home phone due to an internet switch from DSL to cable (and who needs a home phone anyway?!), and we’ve never got a hold of Frank. Enter Speedy Gonzales.
We didn’t know we had a mouse until yesterday, when J told me he found turds when doing the dishes. Although he disposed of the turds that were in a frying pan, he left the turds that were on the stovetop, and I swear to you that I had a fucking flashback to my old apartment that more accurately resembled the subway system in Japan during rush hour, only the people were mice and they apparently don’t have control of their assholes, because tons of tiny turds could be seen outlining from where the mice came and where they went, like a handful of dotted lines on a pirate map leading to the buried treasure. Argh, there’s nothing like a pirate’s booty! (much like there’s nothing like finding turds lining the perimeter of all your living room furniture that faces one wall)
I hated that apartment for that sole reason – the mice ruled the building, and probably the buildings on either side of my building as well. They ran free so often that my beagle became desensitized of game and to this day doesn’t really give a shit about any other animal that he should want to attack and eat. It was a dark period in my life – a period filled with more foreign urine and feces than a line of spot-a-pots at VirginFest.
When we bought our house, I was determined that rodents would not run free in it, and now due to my combined laziness and hectic schedule I have allowed the furry little fuck to shit all over my stove. No one shits on my stove.
Hear this, you rancid rodent: consider my squeal a warning, you will not get another. I will hunt you down (or get Frank to) and I will eradicate your from my residence. Get out now before you still can, or I may just split our electric bill three ways this month, which I don’t think you could pay, unless you keep your tiny wallet somewhere other than in your nonexistent pants.
Until I get off this damn trial and am able to call Frank, I’ll be lacing the dog food left out overnight with pain pills, because if I can’t yet keep you from running all over my stove, at least I can keep you from shitting all over it. Oh yeah, and I’m hiding the Metamucil.