CREEK ROAD GANG
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Of Mouse and Man
Jo Christian Babich
Copyright 2009
I now have verification of something I've long suspected: Walter, my Captain Courageous, who would battle flood, flame, and possibly grizzly bear to protect me, would abandon me in a trice if peril should appear in the form of mouse.
This is all because of something that happened to him decades ago, on a cold November night in an army Quonset hut. He woke up in the dark, not quite knowing why, and became aware that something small, furry and alive was nestling between his chest and his tee-shirt. Letting out a war whoop, he hit the ceiling of the hut about the same time the mouse did. One of them was left with a permanent fear of mice and the other, presumably, with a permanent fear of GI's.
"It's not fear," Walter corrects me when I belittle him for this blot on his manhood. "It's distaste."
Ha! It's fear. It's stark terror. That became perfectly clear last night.
We were sleeping about as soundly as we're ever permitted to sleep. One of the disadvantages of our having converted the downstairs den into our bedroom is that we're now privy to the secret night life of our dog and cat. We are across the hall from the kitchen and can hear the flap-flap of the doggie door when Zinka sneaks out to spy on the nocturnal rites of the rabbits or Harpo slips out for his hourly communion with the moon.
We're used to it by now, and last night when we were semi-awakened by a resounding flap, followed by a loud "MeeYOWyeryow," we failed to recognize Harpo's mousing cry.
Walter, without stirring, murmured in the darkness, "Give the little guy a saucer of milk . . ."
"Why can't YOU give him a saucer of milk?" I grumbled, trying to delay the inevitable.
"He's not my cat," he said.
I responded by citing a technicality that never did get me anywhere, even before the kids moved out and left us with a not-quite-empty nest: "He's not MY cat either."
I struggled out of bed and headed for the kitchen in the dark, but as I reached the hall my bare foot stepped down and rested for one unbelievable instant on something small, furry, and . . . dead.
I leaped away with a loud oath. Harpo hit the doggie door like a flying missile, and Zinka came bounding in, barking loudly. I switched on the hall light. And there it was, poor mouse, quite whole and expertly cat-killed, and there in our den-bedroom, one craven eye peering out from the bedclothes, was the man I had married in a weak moment long ago.
"Is it . . . a mouse?" he whispered.
"Yes, damn it, it's a damn mouse, get out of that damn bed and help me put it in the damn garbage . . . "
"Doesn't take two," he said conclusively.
Still swearing, I fetched the dustpan and a paper bag, and with the one, gingerly edged the mouse into the other, and deposited the loathsome package in the trash can in the kitchen.
I was cold and muttering and definitely out of sorts when I finally crawled back into bed. Somewhere from under the mound of covers next to me, a quiet voice inquired:
"Did you . . . wash your foot?"
This is all because of something that happened to him decades ago, on a cold November night in an army Quonset hut. He woke up in the dark, not quite knowing why, and became aware that something small, furry and alive was nestling between his chest and his tee-shirt. Letting out a war whoop, he hit the ceiling of the hut about the same time the mouse did. One of them was left with a permanent fear of mice and the other, presumably, with a permanent fear of GI's.
"It's not fear," Walter corrects me when I belittle him for this blot on his manhood. "It's distaste."
Ha! It's fear. It's stark terror. That became perfectly clear last night.
We were sleeping about as soundly as we're ever permitted to sleep. One of the disadvantages of our having converted the downstairs den into our bedroom is that we're now privy to the secret night life of our dog and cat. We are across the hall from the kitchen and can hear the flap-flap of the doggie door when Zinka sneaks out to spy on the nocturnal rites of the rabbits or Harpo slips out for his hourly communion with the moon.
We're used to it by now, and last night when we were semi-awakened by a resounding flap, followed by a loud "MeeYOWyeryow," we failed to recognize Harpo's mousing cry.
Walter, without stirring, murmured in the darkness, "Give the little guy a saucer of milk . . ."
"Why can't YOU give him a saucer of milk?" I grumbled, trying to delay the inevitable.
"He's not my cat," he said.
I responded by citing a technicality that never did get me anywhere, even before the kids moved out and left us with a not-quite-empty nest: "He's not MY cat either."
I struggled out of bed and headed for the kitchen in the dark, but as I reached the hall my bare foot stepped down and rested for one unbelievable instant on something small, furry, and . . . dead.
I leaped away with a loud oath. Harpo hit the doggie door like a flying missile, and Zinka came bounding in, barking loudly. I switched on the hall light. And there it was, poor mouse, quite whole and expertly cat-killed, and there in our den-bedroom, one craven eye peering out from the bedclothes, was the man I had married in a weak moment long ago.
"Is it . . . a mouse?" he whispered.
"Yes, damn it, it's a damn mouse, get out of that damn bed and help me put it in the damn garbage . . . "
"Doesn't take two," he said conclusively.
Still swearing, I fetched the dustpan and a paper bag, and with the one, gingerly edged the mouse into the other, and deposited the loathsome package in the trash can in the kitchen.
I was cold and muttering and definitely out of sorts when I finally crawled back into bed. Somewhere from under the mound of covers next to me, a quiet voice inquired:
"Did you . . . wash your foot?"
~ ~ ~
Biographical Note: Jo Christian Babich grew up in Texas but has lived her adult life in New York and Pennsylvania. She is the author of the young adult novel Journey to Welcome (1995, Zinka Press), the story of a young girl from New York City during World War II, who must abruptly adjust to a small town in Texas hill country, living with relatives she has never met. Jo is currently putting finishing touches on the sequel, January at the Gate . "Grannie's House," which appeared in our September issue, is one of the stories in her 2001 book The Lavender Tree (Zinka Press). For more information on her work, visit Zinka Press online.
