Raiders of the Found Ark

Sometimes, I wonder what would happen if I lived alone. I don’t. I live with Grant. Grant is my lifelong companion. To him, fortunately or unfortunately - depending on your point of view - befalls the task of keeping our house safe from whatever eminent dangers lurk in our Pincourt neighbourhood. It turns out that the only invaders we ever have to deal with only want crumbs and a warm place to sleep.

Over the years, we have dealt with a few raids by the sly creatures. Every time, I have to defer to Grant’s hunting instincts.

The first time it happened, I was sitting in the kitchen on a Saturday morning with my coffee and newspaper. The whole house was  quiet. I am an early riser.

As I lifted my coffee cup, my eyes caught a flash of movement on the floor. A mouse was headed into the kitchen, in my direction.

I immediately morphed into a screeching female and jumped on the chair I had so recently occupied;

• “A mouse! We have a mouse!”

Grant came running into the kitchen. The mouse  ran behind the fridge, then emerged on the other side. Grant grabbed the broom, and started moving the stove to uncover the invader. That’s when I left the room.

• “I’m going skiing!” I screamed.

By the time I came back, two hours later, the stove had been restored to its alcove and there was no sign of the mouse. I didn’t really want to know the details, but I could see that Grant had donned his hunting  mantle.

The war was on. We checked the foundation for entry points, stuffed them with steel wool (a sure blockage), and set traps. Eventually, the traps were empty. This battle was ours, for now.

The thing is, these tiny creatures may have small brains, but they certainly know how to use it. You have to give them that. As Grant armed himself to reclaim our territory, the mice strategies’ evolved. Of course, as you may well know, there is never only one mouse…

Here is a case in point.

One day, the following year, I went down into the back basement to look for a sweater. It was that time of year again, time to reclaim the warm clothes that were stored in the spring. My house is cozy, but one could say cozy is a euphemism for slightly cramped. Closet space being at a premium, I store thick warm winter clothes in a dresser in the basement.

As I opened the second drawer, on top of a bulky ski sweater, I was met by a rather unusual sight. Snuggled into the folds of the thick wool were carefully arranged pieces of elbow macaroni. They formed a perfect swirl, about two inches in diameter. The centre dipped into the knit, so the edges of the small circle formed gently sloping walls for its not-yet-arrived occupant.

The grown-up part of me knows what this means. We have mice. This part knows what must be done.

But the other, louder, part of me is touched by the care that went into finding such a perfect nesting place, the profound instinct that guided this small creature to prepare for its young. The not grown-up part of me feels a heart to heart kinship with this mother, and I close the drawer.

I know what must be done, but it can’t be done by me.

Once again, Grant took up arms. This time, we went one step further. We had the cracks in the foundation repaired, inside and out. We were assured that entry points further invasions were covered.

For three years, we were safe. Grant continued to set preventative traps every winter, but they remained empty.

Then we became complacent.

Yesterday, at the end of the day, I decided to start a load of laundry. I have a habit of simply throwing items into a pile at the foot of the staircase into the basement until I am ready to wash them. It was time, the pile was growing.

I went downstairs to sort the clothes. I sifted through the small pile, thinking of adding items from the basket upstairs, I saw a flash of grey through the layers. As I picked up the clothes to put them in the washer, I felt the brush of soft fur on my hand. A tiny grey mouse flew out from under the pile of clothes and dashed into the back basement, into the dark.

I screamed in surprise, but the image of this small, vulnerable creature was imprinted in my retina. I know what must be done, but the string the little creature pulled in my heart says again

• “Not by me”.

I always fall back into my heart, the heart that sees a tiny creature seeking warmth and crumbs. How can I deny it?

The mouse knows this, as it flashes its cuteness running through my laundry pile.

Game on!