Do you know what curdles the milk of human kindness? The idea of anthropomorphised rodents, with names like Mickey, being perceived as cute.
Let me tell you why.
You know we live in protected woods area (the woods rapidly thinning like my hair, due to encroachment of civilization, leaving concrete bald spots), and periodically have close encounters of the first, second and third kinds with wild life that escape into the cage in which we live. While some of them are relatively harmless, other than sticking pins and needles into the damaged head of one particular inmate who has an exaggerated sense of “eww” towards life forms of varying numbers of limbs, some encounters are less so.
Take yesterday, for example.
If I tell you that I perceived a mouse in the house, you’d probably think you are déjà vu-ing. You are not. I have had a previous hysteric experience with the cursed mammal, which I have shared with you. So excuse me if this sounds repetitive; the fact is that the climax is not.
The cat that adopted us a few months ago finds it her prerogative to walk into the house every now and then to ensure that the furniture is safe, and that the humans continue in their daily routine of running around like headless chicken. Lately, she had taken up sauntering into the kitchen and sniffing under the counters. I discovered why, yesterday. As I was mindlessly browsing the net in post-lunch stupour, thinking profound thoughts such as “if I burned all the calories I ingested by exercising, as Internet recommends, where would I find the energy to, you know, live?”- don’t ask, midlife crisis – I thought I heard a squeak in the kitchen.
Like a compressed string releasing its potential energy, I jumped, rushed to the kitchen, and started flinging out all the ingredients of the lower shelves and searching for signs of life, but found none other than myself. Was it my imagination? But then, the last time I perceived a mouse, even while sleeping, it turned out to be true. The pins and needles got onto business, and I pulled up the dining chair to look at the top shelves and loft for the elusive rodent.
So far, so good.
This chair, let me assure you, has four solid legs, and crossbars that give it a fairly low centre of gravity. Still, it isn’t much beyond common sense to stand at the centre of the chair seat, and not at the edges. But pins and needles render the brain porous and the laziness to get down from the chair and move it a few inches to check the far end of the shelves made me do just that. The chair had had its last (rather heavy) straw and buckled like a torn belt under the unbalanced weight on it, succumbing to the bitch that is gravity, and in the process, brought down with it 55 kilos of bones, muscles and largely fat (around the midsection).
The two Mississippi’s that took for the suspended load to hit the ground stretched to eternity as I felt every cell of the body preparing to meet the red-oxide floor. The right hand, being tethered to the body permanently, decided to take it upon itself to be the buffer and save the internal organs from damage. As the body rebounded from impact, the brain went into hyperdrive – “Oh, God, if my right hand fractures, how would I operate the faucet in the toilet and wash after my business is done?” Meanwhile, the right hand made it known in no uncertain terms that the next time the body decides to meet mother earth, it would hold its coat and wish it luck for the encounter without getting mixed up in the sordid business.
Long story short, after a few excruciating minutes of a few hundred dels of pain, during which time, the dude, having rushed in at the explosion, tried to get the woman up and failed at the mammoth (pun unintended) task, it was concluded that LG’s bones have more impact strength to them than expected and that the health faucet will continue to be used (albeit with a little difficulty) in times to come.
Which comes to the logical question. Were there mice or not?
Your guess is as good as mine.