Remember, oh, three years ago, when I was having such a bad mouse problem that I had to go and get myself a cat? Well, for those three idyllic years, I didn't see hide nor hair (or poop) of any meeces, as if the mice had been all, "Dudes, there's a cat who is a bottomless pit in this apartment now, so let's find a new place to hang." It was lovely.
And then came two months ago, when I came home from work, and what I thought was a routine gross-ass hairball ended up being... a dead, totally played with, mouse. I'd almost stepped on it in my bare feet, you guys. It was gross. I had to call my mother for moral support while I scooped up the corpse and threw it out. It sucked, but I didn't see any after that, so I decided it was just a fluke.
DAMN IT, WHY COULDN'T IT HAVE BEEN A FLUKE? Because yesterday as I was washing some green beans in the kitchen sink, all of a sudden, I hear a thud, then a squeak, and when my horrified ass turned around, there's Sweet Pea all crazy-eyed with a mouse in her mouth.
I don't know if I've ever been more of a complete wuss in my entire life, but my GOD, I almost climbed into the sink and sunk down the drain. While I was gathering my wits, the cat decided to take her prize into the living room (completely ignoring her automatic feeder when it dispensed her food, which is UNHEARD OF), where she dropped it on the floor and proceeded to stare and paw at it and that's when I realized it was still alive.
So I decided to call my parents for a heaping-ass supply of moral support, but got the answering machine,(which launched a nice comedy of errors in which my dad only hears the last few words of my message, "...And I don't know what to do" and assumes I've been half murdered or burned my apartment building down or something and he and my mom are momentarily freaked out), so I called Ken, ignoring my parents on the call waiting because my hands are full with a dustpan and a plastic bag, as I shoo my pissed-off cat away from the shocked-to-point-of-not-moving mouse and close the living room door behind me.
So it was just the mouse and me in the living room, and Ken on the phone, and I crouch down and notice the poor mouse is just breathing heavy and freaked as all get-out, and I feel terrible for it...but I also know I can't let it go free in the alley way next to my apartment, nor bring it to the park, where hawks have been calling home recently. So I just turned my conscience off and quickly scooped it up into the bag and ran downstairs and threw it in the trash.
Yes, I left the poor SOB to suffocate. But I'm hoping that maybe it's the David Copperfield of mice and somehow escaped and used its near-death experience to inspire itself to run away to Times Square and become an actor mouse on Broadway, or hitch a ride on some cruise ship for places unknown. But, you know, not come back to haunt me.
