WELCOME TO THE MOUSE HOUSE

At first I debated whether to even say anything. After all, I knew that if I brought it up, it was going to be a HUGE issue.

But eventually I decided that complete disclosure was the best route. “Honey,” I said in a soothing voice, “there’s a mouse in the garage.”

Now, normally, my wife is very calm and reserved, especially in times of crises. But it is very difficult to remain calm when you are digging your nails into the ceiling in order to stay as far off of the ground as possible.

“GET…IT…OUT…OF…THE…HOUSE…NOW!!!” I am pretty sure she was serious.

Now, before I continue, I need to explain something about my wife and me. I love all animals. I’ve had pet snakes, possums, turtles, raccoons, and the like. I’m a big fan. My wife, on the other hand, thinks animals are fine and all, as long as they stay about seven miles from our house. Granted, maybe this shows that she was not thinking clearly when she agreed to marry me.

But for some reason, this mouse really set her off. We have had numerous wildlife encounters over the years, and she has slowly warmed to the fact that nature is pretty benign most of the time. She has even started to appreciate the toad that comes to our back steps every evening.

This mouse, however, was different to her. It was not a loveable little cartoon mouse like the ones filling our daughter’s toy box. No, this was a ferocious, blood sucking mouse of death, all two ounces of it. She made it very clear what she wanted done with the mouse. I explained to her that this mouse was just out and about, being a mouse, doing what a mouse does. What a mouse does, apparently, is hide under my lawnmower. But it hadn’t done anything that deserved the death penalty, in my opinion. Despite my wife’s prodding, I was not going to fire up the lawnmower. This dude would prefer to be out frolicking in the woods.

My wife’s suggestion was to turn our cat loose in the garage. For you long time readers, you know that my cat is just a step below rabid lion. Were it not for our size dominance, I am pretty sure she would have eaten one of us by now. I thought about that for a minute, but then I was reminded of how cats deal with prey. For those of you not familiar, when a cat catches a small furry animal, it will do one of two things:

1. Sit down and put on the most disgusting, noisy display of consumption you have ever seen

2. Maim the animal to the point of incapacitation, and then drop it at your feet as a show of its hunting prowess

Quite frankly, neither of these is a very enticing alternative, so I vetoed my wife’s solution. “How about I just leave the garage open and let it go out on its own?” I countered.

Clearly, this was not an option. My wife had envisioned numerous scenarios in which the mouse would utilize every minute of reprieve to concoct a sinister assault on her, as mice are prone to do.

Finally, I convinced her to let me set a live trap out in the garage for the offending rodent. I baited it with peanut butter, which is a delicacy in the furry critter world. I know this because when I was a kid, we had flying squirrels take root in our attic. We baited several live traps with peanut butter and in about four minutes we had squirrels from across the neighborhood squeezing in through the eaves to get at the peanut butter.

I was pleased to learn that it works the same for mice. In short time, I had the suspect captive. Through some discussion, we agreed that the best solution was for me to take the mouse and do what I felt necessary, all the while my wife convinced herself that I had taken more punitive actions.

Don’t tell my wife, but I just took the mouse at back and let it free. True, it may come back, but that’s OK by me. I mean, it’s just a little mouse. And I’ve got plenty of peanut butter.

Column addendum: My wife just read this column. She knows where the mouse is. Send help.