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Mouse Flambe′

Spring Cleaning with a Mouse

By Pamela W. CarmanPublished 3 years ago 6 min read
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Mouse Flambe′

We had a small disaster this Christmas. Well, actually, it was the 6th of January. I was taking down the Christmas decorations and I had just placed all the green artificial garlands in their box when I decided to take a break and fix myself a snack. I opened one of the kitchen drawers and was confronted by my worst nightmare. At first, I tried to convince myself that I was observing a few of the chocolate sprinkles that my husband likes to put over his vanilla ice cream. In my heart, I knew this was not so, but Kenneth is very careless in the kitchen, so I made a stab at this conclusion while I let the truth settle in on me. Ultimately, there was no denying it... A mouse had visited me. "Visited" is a misnomer. Mice do not visit. They move in for the long haul. Mice are one of life's perils if one owns a home in the woods, especially in the winter.

Under certain circumstances, I do not dislike mice. In captivity, they are devoted parents and meticulous groomers. But, caged or free, they have this disagreeable habit of leaving evidence of their presence. It was at such evidence that I was staring on the day in question. Evidence of this nature guarantees that I will immediately cease whatever task I am about and will empty every drawer and cabinet in the kitchen. Every item--- pot, pan, jar, can, container, dish, and cup will be washed and disinfected; also the cabinets and counter tops. It is a long and dreary task, but until it is completed I am not preparing another morsel of food in the contaminated kitchen. The drawer that contained the offending evidence is lined with wax paper and then… I set a mousetrap. Mice tend to retrace their steps, I have found. That should not be too difficult for them, since they generally leave an adequate trail to follow.

On this particular day, I got a bright idea. I have come to realize that my bright ideas tend to tarnish rather quickly, but at the time that I get them, they always seem promising. On this occasion, after I wiped over the top of the electric toaster, I pushed the handle down to turn it on. My reasoning was that since we do not use the toaster very often, I could burn away the dust and whatever the stuff is that floats around in one's house and settles in the most inaccessible places. Anyway, I thought I would just turn on the toaster for a few minutes and then give it a good cleaning after it cooled down. I pushed the lever down and went about cleaning a counter top. As you probably know, toasters heat quickly, so it was only a matter of seconds before I began to detect a most disagreeable odor. Being asthmatic, I am very sensitive to odors. (And, according to my doctor, I am supposed to avoid undue stress. If this physician had children, grandchildren, or a mouse, he would realize the absurdity of such a suggestion.)

As soon as I detected the odor, I turned to seek its source. Smoke emanated from the toaster, accompanied by grotesque noises. Before I could get my wits about me, a squealing streak of flame shot out of the toaster and sprinted across the counter top, knocking over an almost empty bottle of cooking sherry. The bottle crashed to the floor and broke apart, splashing little sprinkles of sherry. As the mouse dropped to the floor, it ran through the sherry shower, further igniting itself. Four cats, all of which are more useless than an ex-husband and lazier than Garfield, just sat and watched as the charging inferno dashed toward the living room, leaving a trail of scorched carpet and mouse evidence in its wake.

What happened next would have been of some satisfaction to my mother, rest her soul. Mother appreciated precision with words. One of her pet peeves was to have to drive behind a tanker truck on which was printed, in large letters, the word "NON-INFLAMMABLE". "Flammable," Mother would lecture, "is quite sufficient. It means the contents of this vehicle are capable of burning. 'IN', as any simpleton knows, means 'not'. To put 'NON' in front of inflammable is redundant. It is tantamount to saying 'I don't have none.' It is a double negative, and therefore is actually saying that the contents of this vehicle will not "not" burn, which means, obviously, that it will burn. Which brings us back to flammable." Mother could lecture on this one phrase long enough for us to cross two counties.

So, Mother can take comfort in knowing that her lecture hit home with the manufacturers of my Christmas garlands. The original box, in which I had placed the garlands, was labeled "Flammable". The mouse sought refuge in the greenery, which ignited with such gusto that it left no doubt as to the veracity of the labeling. I grabbed a broom from the fireplace (not the most intelligent place to store a straw broom, nor the most appropriate of utensils with which to endeavor to beat out a fire) and attempted to shove the mouse flambé, a la garland garnish, out the front door. It was at this point that our five-year-old granddaughter appeared in the living room.

"What happened?" she shrieked.

"It's a mouse!" I shouted, excitedly.

Kaylin's eyes widened as the flaming mass tumbled down the front steps. She apparently thought that either her grandmother had taken leave of her senses or this was the largest mouse she had ever seen, aflame or not. She made a rapid recovery when she realized this was the opportune time for her to perform a hitherto forbidden action. She grabbed the telephone and dialed.

"911," said the operator. "What is your emergency?"

"My Nana's mouse is on fire!" yelled Kaylin.

Need I tell you that the operator thought Kaylin said "house", not "mouse"? I will spare you a description of the bedlam that ensued. The memory of it is too unpleasant to recount. I will simply say that our local fire engines are wider than our remote driveway, and mountain volunteer firemen are not noted for their physical fitness or their sense of humor. They had to abandon their vehicle halfway up the driveway and they arrived at my front door, huffing and puffing, a few minutes later. Since they were all born and raised here, I thought it was rather short sighted of them not to realize that their largest fire truck would not navigate this remote road, but it occurred to me that one was in no position to criticize the intellect of another when she was standing on her front porch holding a scorched broom in one hand and in the other a smoldering Christmas garland from which dangled bits and pieces of cremated mouse.

On top of all that, there was enough damage to the carpet to be noticeable, but not sufficient enough to warrant filing a claim with our homeowner's insurance company. (There is a lesson in here.) Kenneth solved the problem by suggesting that if we neglected to vacuum the carpet long enough, there should be an adequate accumulation of cat hair to cover the damage. This, I suppose, is an example of Yankee humor. It is my punishment for marrying a Yankee. The primary characteristic of Yankee humor is that it is not funny to Southerners.

Thankfully, Christmas is behind me. I am looking forward to summer, when the mice will no longer want to bed down in the house, and the only outside creatures with which I will have to contend are snakes.

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