Three Blond Mice
Miss Mae
September 17, 2007
C'mon, admit it. You're intrigued by the title, aren't you?
But you realize, of course, the intelligence of mice. Because of their brilliant IQ, they're chosen to conduct laboratory tests. I sure couldn't pass those lab tests (and I don't want to, either), but mice apparently do so—with flying colors.
And, well now, blonds—ahem, the world is aware of their 'reputation', let us say.
Why do I put mice and blondes together? To shoo the furry varmints in front of the gals' prancing feet and stand back, hear their frightened shrieks, and watch the ensuing hilarity? No, but because of some incidences that happened last winter.
I told you mice have smarts. For instance, in cold weather they know to seek warm places. My husband and I discovered this logic from said pint-sized, pea-brained rodents when they sought to humanize themselves a bit too much for our pleasure.
Mouse Number One built him (or her) self a cozy little nest in the breather of our riding mower. Hubby was more than ired by the industrious endeavor. Very carefully, he cleaned out the leaves, twigs, and hickory nutshells. And he saw this critter had taken such a liking to its new 'pad' that it made himself (or herself—but to save typing on my fingers, I'll use “he”) a midnight snack by nibbling on the spark plug wire. He'd obviously enjoyed the taste so much, he almost chewed it in two! Since this was a new piece of equipment, hubby was most annoyed at the mouse's blatant lack of disrespect for his toys—I mean, tools. And guess what? The guilty party sat there in a cubby hole of a spot where my husband's fingers couldn't reach, its beady eyes staring at what it probably considered a giant intruder. Hubby gnashed his teeth, wrapped the wire with electrical tape and set a peanut buttered coated trap for the uninvited guest. Next day he checked to see his yield.
Some smart mouse! The peanut butter hadn't been touched, but a new bed had been rebuilt and—another meal eaten in the exact same spot, through the tape! To my husband, this was totally unacceptable. He determined to outwit this tiny Einstein.
For those faint of heart, I won't mention the details. But, since you can probably imagine who won, I'll just say that after the deed, hubby smacked his hands together in a gloating way, beaming with satisfaction. Yes, sirree. He'd gotten victory, and protected the dignity of his mower. He kept an eagle eye out, too, in case any more of the smart-alecks made a return visit.
Well, the mower got saved, all right. The mice abandoned it. But about two days later, I'm driving the car to town and hubby's in the passenger seat. I turn on the heater fan to give us warmth. A horrible sound, like the thumping of a washing machine out of balance, erupts into the air. And the acrid smell of burning cloth fills the interior. Shall I tell you this unnerves me more than a bit. Crazy thoughts are racing through my mind. Is the car's engine running too hot and about to explode? Will my disgustingly unflattering (yet, all too realistic) driver's license picture wind up on the six o'clock news while my charred body's lying flat on a cold slab in the town morgue?
Hubby reassures me that whatever the problem is, not to worry because he'll handle it when we get home. So we turn off the heater, and the rest of the trip is driven inside a freezing automobile.
Once we're back home, true to his word, hubby immediately investigates the strange phenomena. Ah, ha! The wily mouse, or mice, has struck again. A bigger, better, improved 'dwelling' now resides inside my car heater. Talk about shelter from the weather, security from the cats and dogs, great seclusion from its neighbors—I mean, this brain picked out the very best locale. But, of course, since this now takes place inside my very own toy—I mean, tool—I now become involved. And recalling the white-knuckled angst I experienced while scooting down the road in a potential fireball, I steel myself to be a landlord determined to evict my tenant. Hubby receives my blessing to take charge of the 'matter'.
While he pulls out the compacted fibers stolen from the carpet inside my car, (that rascal had really padded its home!), he finds that indeed the resident was female. A blind, helpless, hairless baby lays in the soft cushion its mother had lovingly created for it. Oh, great. Sob gulping time—Not! With gusto, hubby cleans the heater fan, discarding all evidence of any occupying meesers.
Well, that had been Mouse Number Two. After that, we set a peanut buttered trap inside the auto, hoping to lure Mama. Can't be sure it was her, (as I wasn't about to check for gender), but next morning the biggest mouse (in truth, it was closer to a rat, folks) obliged our efforts. Success!
And that appeared to end our trials with the whiskered nuisances—until next winter? We'll have to wait and see.
But I've wondered—those rodents hunted well to find what they considered ideal spots. Would you call them smart? Yet, considering their fate, you'd really want to ask how smart their choices were. Then again, maybe they'd just fallen victim to having “blond” moments.
Copyright 2007 by Lula M. Thomas
But you realize, of course, the intelligence of mice. Because of their brilliant IQ, they're chosen to conduct laboratory tests. I sure couldn't pass those lab tests (and I don't want to, either), but mice apparently do so—with flying colors.
And, well now, blonds—ahem, the world is aware of their 'reputation', let us say.
Why do I put mice and blondes together? To shoo the furry varmints in front of the gals' prancing feet and stand back, hear their frightened shrieks, and watch the ensuing hilarity? No, but because of some incidences that happened last winter.
I told you mice have smarts. For instance, in cold weather they know to seek warm places. My husband and I discovered this logic from said pint-sized, pea-brained rodents when they sought to humanize themselves a bit too much for our pleasure.
Mouse Number One built him (or her) self a cozy little nest in the breather of our riding mower. Hubby was more than ired by the industrious endeavor. Very carefully, he cleaned out the leaves, twigs, and hickory nutshells. And he saw this critter had taken such a liking to its new 'pad' that it made himself (or herself—but to save typing on my fingers, I'll use “he”) a midnight snack by nibbling on the spark plug wire. He'd obviously enjoyed the taste so much, he almost chewed it in two! Since this was a new piece of equipment, hubby was most annoyed at the mouse's blatant lack of disrespect for his toys—I mean, tools. And guess what? The guilty party sat there in a cubby hole of a spot where my husband's fingers couldn't reach, its beady eyes staring at what it probably considered a giant intruder. Hubby gnashed his teeth, wrapped the wire with electrical tape and set a peanut buttered coated trap for the uninvited guest. Next day he checked to see his yield.
Some smart mouse! The peanut butter hadn't been touched, but a new bed had been rebuilt and—another meal eaten in the exact same spot, through the tape! To my husband, this was totally unacceptable. He determined to outwit this tiny Einstein.
For those faint of heart, I won't mention the details. But, since you can probably imagine who won, I'll just say that after the deed, hubby smacked his hands together in a gloating way, beaming with satisfaction. Yes, sirree. He'd gotten victory, and protected the dignity of his mower. He kept an eagle eye out, too, in case any more of the smart-alecks made a return visit.
Well, the mower got saved, all right. The mice abandoned it. But about two days later, I'm driving the car to town and hubby's in the passenger seat. I turn on the heater fan to give us warmth. A horrible sound, like the thumping of a washing machine out of balance, erupts into the air. And the acrid smell of burning cloth fills the interior. Shall I tell you this unnerves me more than a bit. Crazy thoughts are racing through my mind. Is the car's engine running too hot and about to explode? Will my disgustingly unflattering (yet, all too realistic) driver's license picture wind up on the six o'clock news while my charred body's lying flat on a cold slab in the town morgue?
Hubby reassures me that whatever the problem is, not to worry because he'll handle it when we get home. So we turn off the heater, and the rest of the trip is driven inside a freezing automobile.
Once we're back home, true to his word, hubby immediately investigates the strange phenomena. Ah, ha! The wily mouse, or mice, has struck again. A bigger, better, improved 'dwelling' now resides inside my car heater. Talk about shelter from the weather, security from the cats and dogs, great seclusion from its neighbors—I mean, this brain picked out the very best locale. But, of course, since this now takes place inside my very own toy—I mean, tool—I now become involved. And recalling the white-knuckled angst I experienced while scooting down the road in a potential fireball, I steel myself to be a landlord determined to evict my tenant. Hubby receives my blessing to take charge of the 'matter'.
While he pulls out the compacted fibers stolen from the carpet inside my car, (that rascal had really padded its home!), he finds that indeed the resident was female. A blind, helpless, hairless baby lays in the soft cushion its mother had lovingly created for it. Oh, great. Sob gulping time—Not! With gusto, hubby cleans the heater fan, discarding all evidence of any occupying meesers.
Well, that had been Mouse Number Two. After that, we set a peanut buttered trap inside the auto, hoping to lure Mama. Can't be sure it was her, (as I wasn't about to check for gender), but next morning the biggest mouse (in truth, it was closer to a rat, folks) obliged our efforts. Success!
And that appeared to end our trials with the whiskered nuisances—until next winter? We'll have to wait and see.
But I've wondered—those rodents hunted well to find what they considered ideal spots. Would you call them smart? Yet, considering their fate, you'd really want to ask how smart their choices were. Then again, maybe they'd just fallen victim to having “blond” moments.
Copyright 2007 by Lula M. Thomas
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