a lady wears heels to fight a mouse


Here’s the scene. I am on a chair, standing, in heels, with one hand on the top of the chair and the other holding a phone, peering behind a low bookshelf. My cat is on the floor, crouching, with her paw underneath the bookshelf, looking perplexed. On the phone is my friend Jason in Japan. Underneath the bookshelf, is a mouse.

So how did I get here?

Irrational fear is a strange thing. So are cats. Take mine, for instance (the cat for now, the fear later). Being a young woman of three-years-old, Hildie likes to be outside. Despite some reluctance on my part, I decided to get her a collar and name tag and accept her choice to be an indoor/outdoor cat. Who am I to tell her how to live?

The two of us were getting along splendidly, until one day (in what I assume was some poorly thought-out attempt on Hildie’s part to extend her thanks), I caught a glimpse of something in her mouth out of the corner of my eye. I thought it was a leaf. She dropped it, and when said leaf became mobile, scurrying under my bed, I screamed and ran out my front door (cue the irrational fear).

Outside, barefoot, I decided to call my ex-boyfriend. What can I say? Old habits die hard. When he didn’t answer, I tried my friend Emily. She grew up on a farm and would likely know how to, I don’t know, wrangle it? Emily was confused, “Carrie, what do you think the mouse is going to do to you?”

Eat my toes.

Crawl up my leg with its creepy little mouse feet.

Stand in the corner, mocking me.

I mean, the options were practically limitless. Hadn’t the mouse already annexed my apartment, sending me and my sanity out the door?

My friend Ed was the one to convince me to go back. Somehow, he got me to think Hildie swallowed the mouse whole.

When you’re desperate, you’ll accept just about anything.

Still, I was weary. I put on heels. I tip-toed in the heels around the apartment. Mostly, I stayed on the couch, sat on my feet, kept an eye on my cat.

I began to think of places the mouse could be hiding. Behind the refrigerator? Under the couch? Where else could it go? What if I saw its head poking out somewhere? What would I do?

Oh me, oh life, these questions recurring.

I decided living with the mouse was not an option. I’m not saying I have anything against mice as a species. I mean, hey, I loved Mickey Mouse as a kid. When my grandmother asked me if I wanted a bunny for Easter, I said, “No, Da, I want a Micka Mouse.” Micka Mouse could be snuggled though. And he wore pants. How is a lady to live with a mouse without pants?

Then, I caught Hildie near the bookshelf looking serious. The mouse had to be there.

Here is my chance to deal with the mouse, I thought. For some reason though, in my head, I had to have a witness. Being with others or something.

So, again, I got my phone. I called my friend Jason, who knew of my mouse, uh, issues, disregarding 12-hour time difference. Then, I proceeded to narrate my every move, whispering.

“I put on my heels.”

“I’m going to get on a chair.”

So here we are.

I was too far away to see the mouse. So, I grabbed the chair with one hand and proceeded to pivot it to the bookshelf with me on it and Jason still on the phone.

Hildie could not get her paw far enough under the bookshelf to get the mouse. I decided to, slowly, oh so slowly, move the bookshelf. The mouse began to squeak. So did I. Together, we were like some terrible elementary school choir in a horrific round of “eek!”

When I moved the bookshelf a bit more, the mouse was dead. Hildie and I had somehow managed to kill it in a bout of tug-o-war gone wrong. Her pulling with her paws, me with the bookshelf.

What came next was sort of a flurry of shouts and plastic bags. The mouse now dislodged, Hildie got it in her mouth and proceed to treat it like a toy, tossing it here and there and throwing me right back in to my anxiety-ridden hysteria. I got gloves, bags, a bag for the bags. By the end of it, Hildie was in the bathroom and the mouse was in the trash.

I was still wearing heels.

I think that counts for something.


5 Responses to “a lady wears heels to fight a mouse”

  1. 1 Lady Emily

    I’m sorry I couldn’t have been more help. I wasn’t aware of the lady’s suriphobia. Next time, I won’t be such an insensitive hick. :)

  2. Points for using Walt Whitman! It nearly made me forget that you ripped a scared-to-death mouse to death with a your bookshelf and pet.

  3. I have a huge, irrational fear of rodents. I blame the book 1984.

  4. “I was still wearing heels” …Perfect

  5. I love this!!!!! …. Listen, this has been a rough century for me. And I feel like alot of what I am, has been – well, it’s gone into a deep slumber and I can’t find it … UNTIL … yes, my cat brought me a live – leaf?! NO ITS A MOUSE A DEAD MOUSE!!! All the girly girl stuff I thought was gone forever — squealing, flapping my hands, running around, a bag for the bags ….. so much identification with what you wrote!!!

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