By Becky Holland, firstname.lastname@example.org
Sitting at my desk, I was in the middle of writing the best story ever, or so I thought. The dog was happily snoozing nearby. The window shade was down so I couldn’t see what was going on outside – if there were any stray chickens or cats or a stray dog, or even Big Foot. I wouldn’t be surprised at all what I saw out in my yard anymore.
The moles were the only things I had not come across yet. I know that they are there – my yard is full of tunnels and dirt mounds.
I decided to put all that aside, and enjoy the coolness of the evening of Sunday. It was about 8pm. (Only an hour and 45 minutes ago)
Since time changed, it started getting darker a little earlier. That only added to the writing environment – sort of a sense of melancholy. Barbershop: The Next Cut was playing on my tabloid. Eddie, one of the characters, was in the middle of one of his jokes on Calvin, another character.
I felt something on my leg. I stretch my leg out, and shook it. I figured it was my imagination. My imagination didn’t seem to like that, because I kept feeling it. This time, it felt like something was crawling. I swept my hand down there to brush it away. It stopped or maybe it fell off. I figured it must have been a spider. I looked down at my socks to see. Nothing I could see.
I kept on typing. This time, whatever it was was crawling down my leg. I reached down to lift my pants leg up, and stopped in fear and unbelief. I screamed, shaking my leg and knocked over my glass of Dr. Pepper. Toby jumped and barked.
A field mouse – no bigger than the size of a Fisher Price person – jumped out my pants leg, ran across my foot and headed to the kitchen. Toby went tearing after him, while I did my own version of the Miley Cyrus’s twerk. (The mouse in the picture is not the one who decided to use my leg as a pole for his or her stripper dance.)
Once I regained my senses, I walked into the kitchen where Toby was crouched near the oven. He was growling. “Move, dog, move.”
My hero again. He had chased the mouse right onto the mouse trap – the glue one with a peanut. The mouse was squealing and squawking, and trembling. He was sprawled out on all fours.
“Good boy, Toby.” I shuddered, and threw the mouse and trap into a bag. I shut Toby up in his room and went outside to the trash can, slinging the bag, just a trash talking. “Yeah, this is what you get. You climbed up the wrong leg. I ought just let the cats get you.”
I opened up the trash can lid,and threw the mouse in there. I sighed, and walked back in the house, locked the door and went into our room. Toby looked at me and I looked at him. “I have to get a bath.”
My body had stopped shaking, and my heart had calmed down.
Several years ago, when I was working at a church, a mouse had come in our office, and climbed on my shoe. It had sent me into panic overdrive.
But I had never had one crawl up my leg. Oddly enough, it didn’t make me have a panic attack – just a moment of grossing out. Well, I will admit to jumping every time Toby nosed around me. (Who could blame me?)
Lesson learned for all you mice: You can’t come to Becky and Toby’s house anymore.