I left the back door open a couple of weeks ago and now much to my disgust and horror, we have a mouse, or two mice, or God forbid, a pregnant mouse who will hatch more little mice behind the sofa or in one of the closets, or behind the washer dryer, or up on the ledge above the kitchen sink. I’ve found those revolting little half moons of rodent shit in all of the aforementioned places in the past few days. Also, he/she/they have torn through one of my little cloth bags with their horrible little teeth. Now all the fruit has to go in the fridge. Because I found little teeth-marks in the apples. My husband and I both hate cold fruit.
We can’t put out those hideous traps because Henry could get himself hurt or traumatized though not as traumatized as I feel even thinking about those little critters. And speaking of Henry, why isn’t he doing something about this? Isn’t he supposed to take care of this situation? I certainly can’t, I don’t have the nerves, the sang froid, the lack of squeamishness it takes to deal with this. My husband who is only appearing late at night, due to the TV show he is working on, can do the manly thing, if he were around more. In fact, the last time he went mouse hunting, I think he rather enjoyed himself. I hovered in the other room when, with rubber gloves and in his underpants and wearing his eyeglasses he’d go first thing in the morning to check the trap he’d set out. And within days the culprit would be assassinated. And the mouse shit, gone. The only time I ever came face to face with a mouse was one who got in the kitchen garbage can some years ago, he/she/ had crawled down, and when I went to go put a fresh bag in, there it was its little face, its little peep, its little tail, ears and so on. I took it outside and let it scamper off, what was I to do?
Today, I went to the farmer’s market and discussed the situation with the large man in a caftan and beads who sells lavender and potpourri. He solved the ant and moth situation some time ago.
“Baby,” he said. “You got to get you some mint oil.” It was very costly, this mint oil; it comes in a little amber bottle that was just like the bottles that coke came in. I was tempted to ask him if he sold something else, as he was mumbling, “They run the fuck away from the mint.”
Still and all, I don’t know why I’m so afraid of them, why other than the fact that mouse shit is fairly revolting, unhygienic, not to mention hazardous to one’s health, am I so frightened of something so small, so cute in certain circles, someone named Mickey, (whom I always hated). Or even Amos? Which is my dear son’s name, and also the name of the mouse in Amos and Boris, one of the great children’s tales: Amos, as in, a mouse.
What did a mouse ever do to me?
I can stand on my head; I can stand on my hands, walk after dark in tunnels under freeways, stay by myself in the woods, but not confront a mouse?
I don’t get it.
Is there –yet another—trauma in my past connected to the sight of a mouse? Or is this phobia, something genetic, a musophobic gene I was born with?
One of my all time favorite short stories, by the master, I.B. Singer, involves a man named Herman, his pet mouse Hulda, and his woman visitor, Rose, who saves his life during a bout of the flu and also saves the life of Herman’s pet mouse. It sounds very corny and cartoony, but The Letter Writer is one of the best short stories ever written. And these past days, as I’ve searched hither and yon for mouse shit, I’ve tried to think of Herman, the letter writer, who loved the mouse, and eventually the woman who saved the mouse from starving to death. In the pivotal scene of the story, it’s the middle of the night; Herman awakens after many days of near death. The mouse Hulda appears and Rose, Herman’s visitor, sets out a bowl of milk and they watch Hulda drink. This beautiful story ends on this revelatory moment.
No such revelatory moment exists here with my mouse and me. I hope mint oil works, or my husband comes home and sets out the trap and I don’t have to deal with it in any way, shape or form.
And oh how I wish, or should I say, OY how I wish, (this being Chanukah) that the mouse was scared of me or even better, just plain scared shitless.
by 
