So yesterday, I was at a meeting at school first thing.
Then I came home and discovered husband had moved the mousetrap from near the kitchen bin to near the fireplace. So I phoned husband to ask him why he moved it.
He says he didn’t. I say, are you sure? He says, Yep.
So from my vantage point about twelve feet away, I pop my glasses back on and squint … and see a mouse in the mousetrap.
At this point, I climb onto a dining table chair and scream, “Get out, get OUT, GET OUT!!!!”
Husband is in hysterics on the other end, laughing so hard.
THE MOUSE GOT CAUGHT IN THE TRAP IN THE KITCHEN AND IT CRAWLED ITS WAY ACROSS THE DAMN FLOOR WITH THE TRAP, trying to get back to its hidey-hole. That is one super-mouse!
I got light-headed and seriously panicky, so I exiled myself from the house at husband’s request until he could come home after his meeting to get rid of it. (Husband knows the difference between normal anxiety and my anxiety, and that, my friends, is true love).
I went to a shopping centre, something I loathe almost as much as mice. I bought myself a winter coat since I didn’t have one. I ate some sweet potato mash. My galloping heart beat slowed down. Then husband called and said, I’m home but the mouse isn’t in the trap.
Boom, my heart rate ramped right up again! Stomach cramps. Sweaty palms.
Husband tidied and eradicated any evidence of the mouse’s journey, but we are regarding the the fireplace very warily, in case the enraged mouse comes back in a bionic incarnation. We’re stomping around like ogres to pretend we’re not scared of the teeny-tiny (big, bad) mouse.
Turns out, Husband has murophobia, too. He just loves me that much that he’ll always deal with the mice. Awwwwwww.