Grumpy refuses to help when I find a dead mouse in the house. He simply refuses to help. We’ve been in this house for over 20 years, fixing the crumbling structure as we find fault with something, repair it and find something else ready to crumble.
The smell in the bedroom was overwhelming one morning, and I knew what it was. Grumpy refused to acknowledge the putrid smell because he knew I would ask him to take the cadaver outside to adorn the lawn.
Diligently, I open every drawer and every closet in the bedroom and found nothing at all. But the smell lingered for a couple of more days until I could no longer sleep in peace.
Another day, another cleaning of the bedroom drawers. Finally, there he was in all his glory; deader than a doorknob. Fat and smelly. I screamed, as a delicate woman should, but I was not about to hold its tail and threw him outside; as far as I know, it’s Grumpy’s job to clear the house of dead rodents.
Several hours later, the dead mouse was still in the drawer among Grumpy's underthings. I gave up, found the broom and dustpan, and proceeded to take the dead mouse outdoors. Grumpy just smiled, as he had won the round.
A few days later, looking for something to snack on, found debris in the cupboard; thinking it was the work of the dead one, cleaned it up and continued with my chores. But no, the next day, more debris was found, along with nibbled packets of cheese and broken cracker bags. Another mouse was in the house. May have been his twin.
Grumpy suggested I place a block of rat poison in the cupboard, although it seemed an unsavory solution to the problem. How can I place poison among the food? Grumpy suggested it would be the reasonable thing to do, as the mouse knew where to feed himself.
I agreed and proceeded to place small blocks of poison on every shelf in the cupboard, but before I finished with the first shelf, the mouse jumped out from behind a box of tea and scared the poison from my hand. Naturally, I screamed and was so frightened, I cried until the tears ran down my legs.
Grumpy, while seating on his recliner reading a book, could not stop laughing at my situation. He thought it was the greatest thing ever happened to me, being attacked by a 3” mouse.
As I sit and wait for the mouse to die, I hear Grumpy tell me about the time he got up in the middle of the night and saw the creature on top of the counter, sliding down the curtains to find a safe place to hide. Or the time I saw its little body slither from the laundry room to the living room, darting around the couch and hiding in the bookshelf. Or another time when I found pieces of the dishwasher insulation on the kitchen floor, or the bottom of the stove drawer which needed to be cleaned.
Will I ever sleep in peace, and not think the mouse is on the bed, near me, waiting for me to go to sleep so he can nibble away without being stalked? I’m now just waiting for the smell to let me know he’s dead.