One Mice. Two Mice. Red Mice. Blue Mice.
I was asleep, gone from the world. I thought I was still on Frankies lap until a force or movement stirred somewhere in my nonexistent state.
I open an eye, I am indeed still on the couch but towering over me is Frank Coppola holding a broom; a wildly crazed look in his eye.
“I’ve got him. He’s out.”
El Chupacabra? Boogie Man? Rapist?
“He’s behind the tv, just wait you bastard.”
The mouse. Of course, the fucking mouse.
I had failed to tell you weeks ago about the original mouse we caught, it was far too strange and unexpected and I felt my words for the story would fail to capture the intense hilarity of the situation. I’ll just say it went from: Pre Capture- I’ll kill it, i mean what else can you do? I can’t torture him, Erika. This is why girls can’t do things like this. Post Capture- WHY WON”T YOU HELP ME? ERIKA! Look up how to free a mouse from a glue trap.
Right. So what we ended up with was a mouse on a glue trap covered in oil in a shoe box with two prayers said for his safe escape BLOCKS FROM OUR APARTMENT.
Back to the present. Same plan to capture THIS mouse just in a different room. Within seconds Frankie is whooping like the NY Giants just won the World Series. (yeah, i know those two sport references don’t go together. Its my only way to rebel against the sports fanatics in my life.) He caught the fucking mouse.
This time it was second nature. Retrieve oil. Cover Mouse. Say Prayers. Frankie walks the shoe box numerous blocks away.
Fears I have now? Only two: Reading a local story in the Metro on a new delicacy found in homeless camps, fried mouse. Comes pre oiled, just add fire. And….HOW MANY FUCKING MICE DO WE HAVE?
*I feel the need to express with a fervor that we are cleanly people.