Big Game Hunter

My husband, thank all the good in goodness, is not a hunter. Not that I'm all anti-hunting or anything, I'll happily gnaw on some venison right alongside the next guy, but I just don't want any part of knowing anything about how that venison got on the table. Ignorance is bliss.

Anyway - I am not left stranded, a hunting-widow, each fall. And this may partially explain why. So back to the story. Here is my account of events in our house last night...

"CAROL!! WAKE UP! COME DOWNSTAIRS!!"

I look up to see Patrick standing by the bed, holding our cat.

"What??! Why???"

"Baxter got The Mouse***! Now it's in a vase! Downstairs!! Come down there with me!"

***We had an unwanted visitor in our house for the past couple of weeks. We were in the basement watching a movie a while ago, and I heard the distinct scurrying sounds of little mouse feet in the ceiling. Now, I grew up in an old house. I know what a mouse sounds like.

I expressed my concerns to my husband, only to be poo-pooed. So I dropped it. My philosophy is this: I've been pregnant. And been on bedrest. And given birth. Twice. Therefore, I'm way ahead of Pat in the "You Owe Me" department. So matters such as cleaning the litterbox, cleaning up dog poop, getting the spiders, and disposing of rodents - are not my job. Once again, ignorance is bliss. There are many things in life that I just want to happen. I don't want to know how, or when, or where... I just want them done.

And I can say these things. Because this is my blog. Now back to the story.

So then we heard the scurrying sounds again a few nights ago. And he looked behind the dogfood. And saw mouse poop. And then he decided to believe me.

He's been playing the mighty hunter for the past couple of days. By setting mouse traps with peanut butter. Only to be mocked by having the peanut butter licked off while not setting off the traps. But who am I to judge? He was doing something about it, and I wasn't, and whatever it took to get that mouse out of my house was fine by me.

Needless to say, at 11:00-something-p.m. last night, I was a little out of it. And as soon as I heard "mouse," I wanted no part of it.

"What do you mean downstairs? On the main floor?"

"NO. In the basement. I don't know what to do!!"

"Tough. I am not getting out of bed. I'm sure you and Baxter will figure it out."

Some time later, he came to bed. And wanted to regale me with tales of the fantastic mouse hunt. I begged for ignorance. And sleep.

Apparently, the entire process involved the vase, then a shoebox, then outdoors and then the St. Paul city sewer system. But I don't want to know.

I just hope the Mouse doesn't remember the way back.

And that there was only one.