Mouse in the House

You’ll have to remember when you read this– unless you’ve actually known me for my entire life — or at least a month–  I’m overtly sensitive AND I have an over-the-top imagination.  I’ll just say ‘you have no idea’ and really mean it.  Nothing has been smoked or consumed other than coffee for my imagination to be so.   When people tell me ‘don’t be so sensitive’ I look at them thinking ‘Don’t breath then’.  You can’t stop yourself from breathing — and sensitive people can’t stop being sensitive.  And THAT’S OK!   As if I can really change the fact that’s how I’m hard-wired – OR shut down my imagination.   God made it – don’t judge.   I like to also think God’s pretty darn pleased and amused with how I manage to keep him entertained much of the time.

On to a very furry story.  I have a petite cabin nested in N Georgia mountains – Ellijay to be exact.  Red Bear Cabin.   Quilt filled, whimsical perched beside a babbling brook.  I like to sit out on the front deck listening to the babble of the brook as if it’s filling me in on what I’ve missed since my last visit .  I imagine it saying ‘you should have SEEN the deer in the back yard yesterday’…. or ‘we have the chubbiest chipmunks…have you ever noticed that?’.   You get the jest of our conversations.  You may have completely different conversations with my babbling brook– but I digress.

I was aware of the presence of a petite mouse (hopefully it’s one and not an entire herd of mice) at the cabin when I noticed my wonderful berry filled wreath above the fireplace began looking a bit ….. berry-less.  I walked closer to said wreath when I realized there were small calling cards (mice poo) scattered along the mantle.  Eyes wide with the realization we have a small visitor — who wasn’t on the guest list at the cabin.  Smack.  Criminy.  Love/hate relationship immediately formed with the little fella.

Friends were visiting the cabin a month later and caught the little guy.  I was hopeful that was the end of my mouse saga.  Alas — I popped up to the cabin yesterday to get my mountain fix —  I sat nested in quilts on the over-stuffed brown leather couch – happy as a plum – sipping a good glass of Cabernet – when I noticed a petite furry brown face staring at me across the room. Obviously the twin brother of the previously slain mouse my friends captured a few months back.   It was lounging on the Palomino club chair – in striped red pjs (that part is a lie obviously- maybe)  watching me watch a movie.  I smiled at him.  He was pretty darn cute.  I imagined him making himself at home when the cabin was unoccupied by humans.  He had a martini on the back deck as he hung his towel on the hook before he entered the hot tub for his nightly routine of watching dusk descend upon Red Bear Cabin.  He had a favorite quilt – the one with sailboats and red patches – weathered and worn from years of snuggling.

My heart sank because I realized I would need to kill the little fella.  Tearful as I write this.  That’s the overtly sensitive part of my tormented soulful self.  I give human personality to animals and inanimate objects.  I think there’s a name for that in the mental health community (anthropomorphize).   For now we’ll just call it #Kimysworld shall we? Lordy.  :::shaking my head:::::

I watched him scurry behind the chair as I turned off lights getting ready for bed.  Little did he realize it was his last night at Chez Red Bear.  I put a dab of peanut butter in the mouse traps and walked sadly up to my bedroom.  I lay awake for hours – fitfully trying to sleep and apologizing to him and the world for slaying this sweet little mouse.  Hopeful he was very smart and knew I had set the traps that he would be able to escape.  Darn.

I finally drifted off at some point – I awoke to birds chirping as the sun was filling the room with a new day.  A day without one little brown furry mouse in the world.  ::::sigh::::

The little guy hopefully went swiftly into never-never land of mousedom.   His death turned into morbid curiosity as I held the mouse-trap with his limp or should I say already stiff body.   I buried him by the babbling brook who quickly babbled to me that it needed to be done.   It’s OK.  I love my babbling brook who obviously loves me back.

So — I sit here recounting this furry little story to you – at the Martyn House Intown – my haunt when I’m at the cabin.  Sipping my latte – feeling better already.  Thanks for listening. :::wrinkling nose :::::::