Recordpub.com - Been There, Done That by Laura Nethken

Anyone who has known me for more than 15 minutes is probably aware of my extreme fear of mice. Just the thought of them makes my skin crawl.

And my "condition" is heightened at this time of year. It's starting to get cold out so the mice and whatever other rodent-types are hanging around have determined to get settled in for the winter.

Settled in to my house. Which is a total no-no. I cannot peacefully co-exist with a mouse in the house.

Everyone says "they're more afraid of you than you are of them." No. No, they are not. I don't care if I'm a million times bigger than they are. If I see one, I'm the one running.

I actually passed my youngest on the steps once after I spotted a mouse upstairs. Sorry about his bad luck, but I was in a big hurry to get the heck outta Dodge.

A month or so ago, I was cleaning the last remnants of our yard sale out of the garage and was about halfway done when I saw a mouse shoot right into the stuff I was working on.

A mouse sighting always results in an automatic and involuntary squeal, which generally brings one of my guys running. Everybody in the house knows what that noise means.

Of course with me in the garage and everybody else not, nobody heard my squeal. So I had to go tell them I saw a mouse. Which still didn't bring anybody running. Eventually, I was able to convince my oldest son to come help me lug that stuff out of the garage.

He kicked everything around a bit to convince me that the mouse was long gone. Well, I wasn't. And I was right, which we both discovered when the little devil shot out of the typewriter keyboard.

That's when I went back in the house to get the dog. Which was a lesson in futility. He may have the "nose that knows" but he stinks as a mouser.

Lately, I've been finding dog food in places I know the dog wouldn't (or couldn't) put it. For the most part with a fat dog like mine, the only place he puts his food in his mouth.

I found dog food on the shelf in the closet, in a blanket in the utility room and in a basket of clean socks. That means the little rascals are stocking up for the winter. Not good.

The other day, I came into the kitchen and was informed by my husband that our son just saw a mouse. Great. And with supper to make, I planned on being in there for awhile.

So, I decided to suck it up and get on about my business. I could do that then because at that point, I hadn't actually seen the mouse myself.

I opened the drawer below the oven, grabbed a pan out and gave the drawer a little shove with my foot. But it didn't go back in.

OK, so I rearranged the handles a bit and pushed again. But it still wouldn't go.

So I leaned down, placed both hands firmly on the drawer, and gave it a really good push. The drawer went in and out shot a little black mouse.

What was he doing in there? Did he have his knees locked and both "hands" on the back of the drawer pushing with all his might to keep me from running him down with it?

After he ran out, the drawer still didn't really want to close all that easy. Did he make it out, but his buddy didn't? There's a thought I could have done without.

And in the meantime, the little bugger ran right into the Tupperware cupboard and I needed a bowl out of there. I hate having to go into that cupboard anyway with the avalanche of bowls catapulting themselves to the floor and now there was a mouse in there.

Well, this time, my little squeal worked and my husband came back into the kitchen.

He asked me what color it was and how big it was. I said it was black and small, about two or three inches long.

"What the heck kind of a bowl is that?" he asked.

The bowl? I thought he was talking about the mouse.

So, I set off to buy some traps. I like the no-see-um kind the best, but they're rather expensive. So I relegated myself to the old fashioned you-see-everything kind. And we've had several mouse "funerals" since then. But none for the one who was playing Mighty Mouse under the stove.

Yet.