Die Fledermaus

Ok, so Die Fledermaus is really an opera by Johann Strauss about a bat, well, it's not really about a bat, but that's how it translates. In any case, it literally means "flying mouse," which I suppose is another way of looking at a bat. This is all really just a preamble to the actual news of the day, which is that mice really do fly.

Let me just back up a few years to 2004. I was still horribly poor, post grad school, working for the man, but not actually making real money. I lived in 3rd-floor walkup brownstone, which was oozing with potential, except in reality it was a craphole. Over the first few months of the year, I had been besieged by mice. Apparently Owl Man, my reclusive, nocturnal neighbor below me, kept birds and thus had quite a lot of bird seed, which had attracted mice. The mice were well known to me, as I heard them scrabbling in the walls and causing my cat, Lena, to sit and stare at the wall for hours. But for the most part, I hadn't really had to deal with them. Then came the month of many mice. I can't remember the time line precisely any more, but I think over the course of several weeks, Lena presented me with about 8 mice. Sometimes whole, sometimes in parts. Sometimes dead, but usually alive. One day I was talking to my mom on the phone, (and I may actually have been aware with Lena playing with a mouse but was so desensitized at that point I decided to ignore it), and I saw the mouse go flying through the air. It probably flew about 5 feet. It landed on a dining room chair and kept running. I call that mouse The One That Got Away.

Fastforward to two days ago. I came home from school and saw all the usual signs--cats transfixed by something that no human can see or hear. This time, it was Lena and Oliver staring at the space below our Craftsman bench (no, not the kind you buy at Sears). Thank God Brave Mortgage Partner came home before they actually made contact. We were able to rescue that one. Sort of. It wasn't so bad.

Yesterday, suffice it to say, I spent some quality time standing on a footstool hovering with a metal colander in my hands and screaming. That mouse spent the day under the colander, which was weighted down by my 18th century art history book, which was covered by a tub, which was weighted down by my big f*cking art history book. Then there was the mouse who got to play with the kitties while I hid upstairs; he eventually ended up rolled in the living room rug.

So I called the exterminator. I just couldn't take it anymore. I hope Jesus forgives me for killing the little creatures. My druthers would be that the meeces would go live in our shed in the backyard. But they seem to like our house better.

My cats are good mousers, but that doesn't actually mean they kill them and dispose of them properly. They're well fed. Oliver weighs 16 pounds for pete's sake. He could go a week without eating. He just lays there with a giant paw holding down a teeny mouse. Awful.

As of this morning, we've been mouse-free since yesterday afternoon. Mortgage Partner always says nature ain't no Disney movie. If it were, I'm sure I'd have a coach and six white horses by now. Bibbideebobbideef*ckingboo!