This may not be the tail of mice and men you remember

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 06/01/2018 (3151 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

I had hoped to get through the first week of 2018 without writing a heart-stopping column about mice.

But I can see now that I was a fool.

Before we go any further, I should give fair warning that today’s column combines two of my most time-honoured topics, by which I mean (a) toilets; and (b) mice.

For the record, I have written dozens and dozens of groundbreaking columns on the sensitive issue of toilets, including toilets malfunctioning on the International Space Station, contests wherein you can win a toilet equipped with a big-screen TV and a state-of-the-art stereo system, innocent homeowners finding rattlesnakes in their toilets and a Canadian stuntwoman who set a world record for being the fastest human being on a motorized toilet.

Shockingly, I have written even more columns on the topic of mice, partly because it touches a chord with sensitive readers, but mostly because, for more years than I care to admit, my wife and I have famously been battling an on-again, off-again invasion of furry little rodents who seem to think our home is a 24-hour buffet.

Despite these heroic journalistic efforts, however, I have yet to be honoured with a major journalism prize. Coincidence? Who’s to say?

But that is not the point. No, the point is these two controversial topics merged into one earlier this week in my home, while I took a brief break from writing an informative yet educational feature on some of the richest pets in history.

(Warning: If you are currently eating breakfast, you might want to skip the next paragraph.)

So there I was, in our main bathroom, perched on the commode, sweatpants puddled on the floor, flipping through the latest issue of People magazine as part of my ongoing quest for self-improvement.

I apologize for planting that image in your brains, but journalistically speaking, I cannot convey the horror of what came next without providing a few graphic details that we normally do not publish in a family newspaper.

Anyway, the point I am trying to make is that I was in what security experts like to call, and I will quote them directly, “an extremely vulnerable position.”

As I sat there, innocently minding my own business, so to speak, suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I sensed some unexpected motion on the floor and… pardon me while I activate the caps lock feature on my keyboard… A (BAD WORD) MOUSE DARTED OUT FROM BEHIND THE TOILET AND BEGAN SCAMPERING ALONG THE TILE FLOOR!

Being a courageous newspaper columnist with fire in his eyes and naturally curly hair, I immediately bashed the furry little invader with my copy of People magazine, thereby rendering him unconscious.

I am, of course, joking. The first thing I did was form the following alarming thought: “OHMYGAWD! A MOUSE IS GOING TO RUN DIRECTLY INTO MY SWEATPANTS, WHICH ARE PUDDLED ON THE FLOOR AT MY FEET!”

Next, without any thought for personal safety, I began emitting a high-pitched screeching sound, the exact noise I made several years ago when I went into our basement and attempted to scoop dog food out of a 20-pound bag, only to have a large grackle, which resembles a crow, flap its way out of the bag and into my face, causing me to fling my body on the stairs and crawl back upstairs while simultaneously wailing like an injured woodland creature.

All in all, I am pretty proud of my reaction, because, if you, the unbiased newspaper reader, are going to be perfectly honest, you most likely would have spontaneously burst into flames if a mouse had run out from behind your toilet while you were in the process of using that piece of home hardware.

Getting back to my bathroom, as the Toilet Mouse trundled away, I instantly leaped to my feet, hitched up my drawers, and waddled after the furry intruder as quickly as humanly possible.

No doubt alarmed by my lightning-quick reactions, the mouse zigged, then zagged, then hopped into an open cupboard under the second sink in our main bathroom and vanished.

Not sure what else to do, I bravely slammed the cupboard door shut, then stood there, staring into the mirror and perspiring like a Butterball turkey on Thanksgiving while my heart pounded at the decibel level of the drummer in a heavy metal band.

The thing is, I had dared to hope that we had survived the latest mouse invasion, because it had been at least two weeks since we’d seen any signs of one of these uninvited holiday guests.

So you will understand it when I say I was neither spiritually nor mentally prepared for the psychological trauma of having a mouse suddenly appear under the worst possible circumstances imaginable.

At this very moment, as I write these words, the Toilet Mouse, as far as I know without actually opening the cupboard door and taking a peek, remains imprisoned in our bathroom, down the hall from my home computer.

I am not sure about my next step. I am giving serious consideration to calling my buddy Bob, who is the publisher of this newspaper and is not afraid of mice because he was raised on a farm, and asking him to stop by and handle the disposal for me.

The only thing I can say for certain is that I am not going to take this sitting down. In fact, I may never sit down again, if you catch my drift.

doug.speirs@freepress.mb.ca