Once upon a time [nearly 17 years ago] a daddy, a mommy, and a baby traveled to Italy for the week.
They left 2 big brothers with another family because, well, it was easier. The baby had to come along because he was breastfed. This wee family unit stayed in an equally wee military motel room in Pisa, and they took day trips to interesting places like Lucca and Florence and Rome. While they were off having fun, an Italian mouse took up residence in one of their suitcases. The mommy discovered tiny bits of chewed up plastic from the cup of cheerios she had brought for the baby, which she promptly dropped in her haste to get away from the probable rodent. (The plastic cup, people — she dropped the no-longer-sealed cup of cheerios; she kept a good grip on the baby!) She then locked herself and the baby in the wee bathroom until the daddy deposited the live Italian mouse back outside into the Italian countryside where it belonged.
The daddy may have mocked her fear by pointing out that a) mice can’t use doorknobs so locking the bathroom door was unnecessary, and b) there was plenty of space under the door for the mouse to enter. The mommy refused the logic of his first point and shrieked loudly at his second point. This event continues to be brought up in discussion in the form of the phrase Italian suitcase.
Not so very long ago [about 10 days ago] the household cat and the youngest boy, age 13, were playing in the rec room behind the garage when they spotted a mouse. The boy and the cat were equally excited. The mouse skeedattled. At bedtime, the cat was deposited into the rec room and left to take care of business; in the morning she was sleeping on a bed with the older teen [baby in above photo] and the mouse’s head was discovered on the rec room floor. We can only assume that the rest of the mouse has been properly digested and dealt with… I know for a fact that SuperDad dealt with the remains.
Sorry if that skeeves you out, too — but fact is fact!
Unfortunately, the story does not end there.
On July 4th, I suddenly realized it was a holiday fer-cryin’-out-loud! and went to the garage to get a few decorations so I didn’t look like a unpatriotic Scrooge.* I opened the drawer stuffed full of Red, White, and Blue decor and grabbed a handful of… stuffing. What is this shredded stuff?!? Oh, crap. Literally. Mouse turds and mouse pee.
The sound of my shrieks and the immediate presence of my person in the main part of the house was enough to get the attention of the rest of the family. SuperDad to the rescue again, as he cleaned out the drawer. He assures me that there is no longer any mice — that the mouse was an independent sort of creature. Why don’t I believe him?
This is one thing that will never change:
I. Hate. Mice.
We did put up a few decorations on the afternoon of July 4th. They might just stay up for a while now. I’m still freaked out about entering that part of the garage.
*Hey, I was working on Tuesday and Wednesday and I can barely even think after work.