I’m not scared of mice, but my daughter, Abby, is, which is odd because in China she had a mouse-ish sort of pet for years, actually a Russian Dwarf Hamster we bought from a street vendor in Suzhou. Abby gave it a home with every delight a mouse could desire. In return it bit her, grew too lazy to use its wheel, and so fat it had to chew a new hole to get into its plastic house. Fearing it was lonely, she revisited the street vendor to procure companions, but it killed every one. The third one, poor little Rosie, actually breathed its last in the palm of her hand. Still, she was not afraid of it and Hami the mouse lived on, stinking up her room in great peace and harmony.

Fast forward to a few of months ago. It’s been a long day, and I’m warm and luxuriating in my comfy bed, just about to turn out the light, when in the corner of my eye I see what might be a tiny dark orb streak across the floor. Maybe a mouse, maybe not, I don’t really want to know, and my bed is sooo warm. In the silence I barely hear the faintest scrabbling from under my bed . . .

This is the part where a good person would put on her big girl pants and go on the hunt, but I am not a good person and had no intention of chasing a mouse in the middle of the night when I could do it just fine in the middle of the day. I said nothing to anyone, figuring I’d quietly take care of it myself. Abby saw it first.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAA MOM MOM MOM MOM MOM MOM MOM AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAHHH

Abby assures me the screaming is entirely involuntary. I believe her, but the mouse turned out to be mice, and by the end of our ordeal a few weeks later, I suspect Porter and I had suffered hearing loss. Read More