Rikki and Moe were giggling and squeaking, reliving their foray into ManLand. Mikki, the youngest mouse of the three, was still trembling from his encounter, and was not in a laughing mood. “It’s not funny, guys! You told me it wasn’t dangerous to go up there!” Moe, the oldest, flicked his ears in irritation. “Did you get caught?” he asked Mikki. “Hey, the Man chased me into his stereo tower! I had to hide in there until he saw you.” Rikki gave a giggle and a squeak. “He was so still in that chair, I almost ran over his feet. When he jumped up, I lit out for the kitchen.”
“And guess who he ran into in the KITCHEN? ME!” Mikki squealed. “I was behind a bunch of cups and glassware and stuff when he came in there. I mean, he had already barked at me when I was trying to find the hole back home.”
“Barked? Like a dog” asked Moe? “Yeah,” said Mikki. “He said ‘NO!’” Rikki piped up: “How do you know what he said? You don’t speak Man.” Suddenly, Rikki and Mikki froze, staring wide-eyed over Moe’s shoulder. Moe, in a resigned voice said, “Mom, right?”
“MOM IS RIGHT you little cat nuggets! How many times do I have to tell you? Do. Not. Party. In MANLAND!” Mom’s eyes blazed and her whiskers flared like spikes. “Do you want to end up like your father, with a snapped neck and blood oozing from your nose?”
“Wait: what? I thought you said Pops went to a larger house to make better nests for us!” said Moe. “Yeah well, I lied,” said Mom. “He got trapped, snapped and whapped into the back yard. And you will too, if you keep partying upstairs!” Little Mikki took advantage of the moment and flew into her fur. “MOM! It was huh-huh-horrible!” he blubbered. “Rikki and Moe told me it was gonna be fun, and then they ran over the Man’s feet and into his stereo tower and the Man came into the kitchen and I was behind the cups and he was looking at me and I could SEE myself in his GLASSES Mom! My eyes looked like little red lights and then I ran and had to climb into the stove …” (“Who climbs INTO a stove” grumbled Moe) “and suddenly it was all hot and OH, MOM!” Mom scraped at the clinging mouse: “Get out of my fur! You three get in that corner and be quiet. I’m going upstairs to see what you’ve set loose.”
Mom Mouse returned in a fury. “I’m sicka you kids! Do you know what’s upstairs, now? Traps! Everywhere! Do you know how hard it is to snag a snack with all those traps gaping at you? I’m gonna send you to live with your father,” Mom muttered, but Moe innocently responded, “He’s dead, right? Snapped neck? Nose blood?” Mom snarled, “Well, I just might put you outside. Do you know how many cats are out there looking for a snack? You guys get to bed; no bread crumbs for you!”
My landlord was doing his annual “pre-winter uninstallation” of my air conditioning window unit when I warned him to watch his foot near the mousetrap on the floor. “Mouse problems, huh? It’s getting colder; I’ll have to find the way they got in,” he told me.
Weeks later, I surveyed my kitchen and marveled at the miracle of the unsnapped traps, and imagined that maybe my shouts and glares and four-burner heat on the stove might have already broken up the mouse party.