Of Mice and Frankie.
We have a mouse.
No, it’s not special that we have this common NYC pest. But not every pest… has met a genuine NYC Frankie.
I woke up yesterday morning to a story that seemingly was about Frankie up all night with indigestion (that’s gas for all those politically correct people). But it quickly turned into YMWIK gold.
He sat in the dark, tummy in trouble. I don’t know why he never turns the tv on. He was thinking about the common differences between guitar solos with Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin when a sound, nay a crunching, met his ear.
It was coming from under the couch.
Frankie leaped silently into action, running for the glue traps in the kitchen. Once retrieved, he placed them barricade style in the strip of hallway from the living room to the kitchen. Frankie had the little Fievel.
He goes to get the mop, his plan to scare the mouse from under the couch and hopefully out of the house! Why don’t I work for Dr. Seuss!
Hyped on adrenaline and male thoughts, he puts the mop in place.
Scares the shit out of the mouse.
And he watches, bathed in moonlight, as the mouse runs under the chair.
Over the glue traps.
Away to freedom.
I must note that this was not his first encounter with a mouse. He fed our old apartment mouse all through winter with the peanut butter it retrieved from the traps that were suppose to kill it. .
YOU WILL ONE DAY SUCCEED! (or forever supply stories to keep this blog a rollin)