It wasn’t what I was expecting to see when I opened the glove compartment. Nestled in with my car registration, a faithful Oldsmobile manual, and sundry other bits and pieces. I don’t actually remember why I yanked open the drawer in the first place, but I had most certainly not anticipated company. Nonetheless, there it was, blinking up at me, small, fat, and twitching.
It was a mouse. Quite a large one (I think it was pregnant). That, in and of itself, was in my unbiased opinion right and proper provocation for a very loud, very high-pitched scream. Shriek might be a better word.
Now I’ve recently read The Borrowers, and I’m all for the little people in this world. (Little in this case meaning approximately three inches tall.) Just not in my car. Although if they’re looking for another sequel for the Clock family (that’s the heros in The Borrowers for those of you uneducated in children’s book lore), I could make a suggestion. Just imagine what would happen if the Clocks tried to live in a car for awhile. Better yet, make it an RV. You’d get all sorts of adventures.
Too bad I wasn’t facing a three-inch human. I might have had a fantastic story to tell. Not that anyone would believe me. But instead I was face-to-face with a three-inch mouse, and I didn’t really fancy the notion of keeping him. Pets in your house are one thing - but in your car? After wrapping up my very necessary and impressive shriek (I took voice lessons, you know), I slammed the glove compartment door shut again. Sort of like a magic trick, I guess. Now you see him . . . and now you don’t! Then I gave the door a few solid smacks with the palm of my hand. Hm. What next?
Rid of the rodent temporarily - or, at least, he was out of sight - I peeped into the glove compartment for a closer look at the damage. Do mice nest? Cause I’m pretty sure that’s what this little guy was trying to do. A fairly good-sized ball of yarn/foam/insulation stuff had appeared from who knows where, and this was sprinkled with a lovely assortment of chewed-up paper. The pink flakes of which happened to be my car registration paper. I have a three-year old niece who has a habit of eating these little forms, so I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised. In fact, I should probably be grateful. My little visitor only nibbled on the edges; my niece chomped down the whole thing.
Then I shut the lid, pounded on it a few more times, and started the car.
Yep, that’s right. I purposefully tried to scare the little mouse into running away (hopefully into the intricacies of the car engine) and then turned the key. I think I expected my car to blow up. Or to hear a “Yee-ow!” and see a little ball of fuzz go flying through the air. Well, it didn’t. At least the car didn’t. The mouse might have; I’m not sure. I haven’t seen him since. I’m rather hoping I don’t ever.
My newly-designed car registration paper now resides safely in my back seat for the wind to blow where it pleases. I hope I don’t get pulled over any time soon. On the plus side, I have to say that my glove compartment has never been cleaner . . . So, here’s a friendly word of warning from one who’s been there: Always beware when opening the lid to your glove compartment. You never know what might be in there.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Saving Batman
All in all, it had been a fairly decent day. Made a pretty little windchime out of seashells. Rode my horse while the setting sun flamed brilliantly. Named a deaf puppy Beethoven. Managed to cook without getting anything burnt, flooded, smelly, or started on fire.
But that was before me and my sister decided to watch Batman. Horseback riding had taken a little longer than anticipated, and it was quite late in the evening when we started the movie. Late and dark. Heedless, we sat in the shadowy living room of the large, empty house (my parents are gone just now to Washington), staring at the TV screen. Impressive scenes of karate and jujitsu, grave danger and heroic rescues, gaudy mansions and squalid alleys filled the screen. And bats. Most of the scary scenes had bats.
Especially that one part where the little boy (Batman in his younger years) falls into the well and sees the dank, dark hole out of which shoot hundreds of the small shrieking creatures. We were somewhere past that bit - somewhere after he’s gotten out of jail but before he saves the world - when IT happened.
IT was a hurtling boomerang of frantic energy, zooming dizzying circles up near the ceiling, now buzzing over our heads like a war plane threatening attack, now ducking into another room only to come shooting back. In our living room. Batman had come to life.
I scrambled to hit the “pause” button just as soon as I stopped screaming and managed to extricate my hands and head from under the blanket I suddenly found myself buried under. Don’t get me wrong - I like Batman. I like bats. But they are both much more charming - and a lot safer - on the other side of the glass.
On the other hand, we couldn’t just leave him in here. Not for his sake - neglect, cruelty to animals, save the whales, and all that - but for ours. So, we began the rather delicate process of extrication. I blocked one doorway, leaping up and down, furiously waving my blanket, and yelping every so often in a tone that I hoped would convince the little guy not to dive-bomb into my head. My sister took the more casual approach, actually aiming her blanket in concise movements that ultimately showed mini-Batman the merits of life out-of-doors.
The way I see it, we saved his life. Even with all the spiders and ladybugs we keep inside our house, I doubt a bat could survive here indefinitely. So, we rescued Batman. Practically. And saving a super hero from cruel and certain death is not something you get to do every day. I’m just glad we weren’t watching Jaws.
But that was before me and my sister decided to watch Batman. Horseback riding had taken a little longer than anticipated, and it was quite late in the evening when we started the movie. Late and dark. Heedless, we sat in the shadowy living room of the large, empty house (my parents are gone just now to Washington), staring at the TV screen. Impressive scenes of karate and jujitsu, grave danger and heroic rescues, gaudy mansions and squalid alleys filled the screen. And bats. Most of the scary scenes had bats.
Especially that one part where the little boy (Batman in his younger years) falls into the well and sees the dank, dark hole out of which shoot hundreds of the small shrieking creatures. We were somewhere past that bit - somewhere after he’s gotten out of jail but before he saves the world - when IT happened.
IT was a hurtling boomerang of frantic energy, zooming dizzying circles up near the ceiling, now buzzing over our heads like a war plane threatening attack, now ducking into another room only to come shooting back. In our living room. Batman had come to life.
I scrambled to hit the “pause” button just as soon as I stopped screaming and managed to extricate my hands and head from under the blanket I suddenly found myself buried under. Don’t get me wrong - I like Batman. I like bats. But they are both much more charming - and a lot safer - on the other side of the glass.
On the other hand, we couldn’t just leave him in here. Not for his sake - neglect, cruelty to animals, save the whales, and all that - but for ours. So, we began the rather delicate process of extrication. I blocked one doorway, leaping up and down, furiously waving my blanket, and yelping every so often in a tone that I hoped would convince the little guy not to dive-bomb into my head. My sister took the more casual approach, actually aiming her blanket in concise movements that ultimately showed mini-Batman the merits of life out-of-doors.
The way I see it, we saved his life. Even with all the spiders and ladybugs we keep inside our house, I doubt a bat could survive here indefinitely. So, we rescued Batman. Practically. And saving a super hero from cruel and certain death is not something you get to do every day. I’m just glad we weren’t watching Jaws.
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