The fear of rats and mice.
It’s not a word that strikes fear in one’s heart is it? More like a fear of Mickey Mouse or a Moose.
Not like say, Carrier – of – the – Black – Plague – and – Harbinger – of – Death – o – Phobia?
When I say I have a phobia of rats, it’s less of a fear than a revulsion. My skin tries its hardest to peel off my body and run very fast in the opposite direction.
In the same way that a cat will always sit on the lap of the person most allergic to it, rats seem to be working under the impression that flood therapy may cure me of my distaste of all things rodentlike.
The Husband required a lift to the airport at sparrow’s fart on Sunday morning. By the time I arrived back home, Puss in Boots aka Silent Hunter on Four Paws, had discovered a nest of young rodents. I’ll call them mice because the alternative makes me shudder.
Puss, being a cat of many talents, decided that carrying them all indoors and chasing them around the furniture was far more fun then simply picking them off one by one as they stuck their curious little noses out of their home.
I walked in and on, #1. I shuddered. I creeped out. I got rid of it.
I walked past #2 playing possum on the kitchen floor.
I called for my first born and delegated the responsibility for removal to him.
Then, although my body screamed for a glass of wine, I made myself some tea and decamped outside with a crossword puzzle.
With the help of a towel and a pooper scooper I managed to put him over the wall and into the wilderness next door from whence he probably came in the first place.
I was now done. Stick me with a fork. Done.
A few hours later Miss Diva and I left to enter the social whirl that is a 7 year old girl’s weekend.
Three hours in a bowling alley in the company of 15 small hysterical children left me reeling and exhausted.
That glass of wine was looking better minute by minute.
It was with great relief I returned home.
Only to discover that my first and second born sons had captured another rat, um, mouse and placed it in the hamster cage I had found abandoned on the side of the road about a month ago.
The dog sat on the floor staring fixedly at the disheveled r-a-mouse.
I had had enough.
I went to the bathroom, armed with a magazine, a glass of wine, bubble bath and most importantly a key.
I reached down to put the plug in the bathtub and then almost become a statistic of Easy Household Ways to Die.
The bloody cat had put another r-a-mouse in the tub so it couldn’t escape and that ginger behemoth sat on the counter and watched with its efforts with bored ennui.
The glass of wine did a tsunami impression, the magazine landed in the loo, I couldn’t turn the blasted key to get out the door. I slipped on the bath mat and screamed as my firstborn climbed in the window to rescue me.
Now I have a hamster cage with two r-a-mice in it.
My children have named them – Turbo and Winston.
I parted with a good hunk of Brie for them.
The cat is bored to death with them.
The Husband is going to hit the roof.
And I forgot to warn my part-time domestic worker.
Oh well, she’ll find them soon enough.