Hello m'dears, from Sinusitisville. My cheekbones feel as if they are being pried off with spoons, my nose runs like a Olympian sprinter, and I sound like Kathleen Turner. In light of my current craptastic spirits, I thought I'd bring you all the tale of a mouse, who found himself in my house, and realized quite unfortunately, that he could not swim. He met his demise at the hands of the Tidy-Bowl Gods. May he rest in peace.
When this originally happened, the hubby and I were in the midst of selling our home in the UK and immigrating him to the U.S. He certainly missed out on the first-hand experience!
This was originally posted to the Off-Topic area of an immigration forum that the hubby and I frequented when going through the immigration process.
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April 2005
I got up early this morning to
use the loo. Under normal circumstances I don't even bother to
turn the light on or 'look' into the toilet. For some reason, this morning I did. While I was not so awake beforehand, within seconds of taking a
second glance at what was floating feet up in the toilet bowl, I can assure you I won't be
needing ANY caffeine today....or tomorrow. Probably not for a while.
I'm pretty fastidious about putting the toilet seat lid down, after using it. For some reason though, last night I didn't. This has definitely assured that I will never leave that sucker up...ever again!
I have never seen a mouse, let alone in a house, let alone in MY house. A chipmunk, yes - as most of you witnessed from last summer. And that chipmunk was not in the least bit "metabolically challenged" if you get my drift! Add to that, I'm a clean freak, I don't leave stuff lying around and more often than not, I usually annoy family and friends due to my cleaning habits. Ask the hubby - he thinks I am OCD when it comes to cleaning, and I’m sure my family would agree with this. So why the hell this mouse, decided to come and die in my upstairs bathroom toilet, is beyond me!
Right when I think I've got the dry heaves from yesterday's melodrama with the dead cat in my car engine, done and over with, I find this! I was going to flush it down the toilet but after a conversation with the hubby he suggested NOT doing that as it may block the pipes and I didn't want to have to deal with telling a plumber what stupid thing I did to clog the toilet up. It's not like it was a little goldfish. The hubby told me just to "take it out and dispose of it" as if it were simply a bar of soap that got dropped into the toilet. MEN!
I stood and looked at the dead mouse floating in my pristine white toilet bowl. Seashells and candles adorned the top of the tank, and for some reason I felt as if all of that had been tainted. I was certain I'd never get the traces of 'dead mouse' removed from my toilet. And just how the hell was I going to get the mouse out of there? I was NOT going to just reach in and grab the damned thing.
It's not like I can call the county coroner and have him come take it away in his little black van. So I did what any other modern housewife who's husband just happens to be 4000 miles away would do. Don't even think for a minute that had he been here, that he wouldn't be the one doing this! Just sayin'! I donned surgical gloves (I keep a box in the garage for my wood refinishing projects), heavier dishwashing gloves, snow-shoveling gloves over those, jeans, a t-shirt, another sweatshirt over that, socks and then finally boots, after debating about whether my Air-Force Ones (I have no idea why I wore such ridiulous sneakers back then) were appropriate dead-mouse retrieval shoes....and for good measure I put my hair up. I almost felt up to the task except I hadn't given any consideration to what I was actually going to fetch him up out of the toilet with.
I went out and got the garden hoe out of the garage and when I got back upstairs with it, I discovered it wouldn't fit into the toilet bowl. I didn't have anything else handy and I started to panic, thinking I was going to have to actually reach in and take it out...WITH MY HANDS! About that time I considered calling a pest removal company and then thought about it for a moment. I'd have to actually telephone them, and as it was still very early there wasn't likely anyone around to come and fetch the mouse until a bit later. I wasn't comfortable with having the deceased present in my home for much longer. Plus, what does one say when enquiring about dead animal retrieval...."Hello - does your company offer dead mouse removal? Oh, where is this dead mouse you ask?" And then I thought the hubby probably wasn't going to be real pleased that I was about to spend money on something I could take care of myself. Then I thought about that money and how I could probably go to Macy's later on this afternoon and spend it there, I figured that was the lesser of two evils. Besides, I think I deserve it at this point!
I took the hoe back down to the garage and looked around for something, anything I can use to retrieve Captain Morgan from the toilet. I have since given the mouse a name, feeling it's the right thing to do, as he's now spent the last moments of his life in my toilet, in my home. I gave him the name of a pirate because he commandeered my toilet facilities without permission, much the same way any pirate of old would have done! Also I live along the water where many ships have met their demise. It just seemed fitting. Being that he was a gray sort of mouse rather than a dark sort, I would have settled on Blackbeard.
So I'm looking for something with which to retrieve Captain Morgan from his watery grave and I spy the barbeque and hanging from it are a rather long set of tongs with large flat grabber things at the end. Perfect! Those will due just fine. I'll pick up anew pair this afternoon while I'm out. I don't think I'll be using these again. I'll grab them while I'm out getting more bleach to sanitize the bathroom.
I go back inside and upstairs, but stop to grab a trash bin liner. On 2nd thought, I'll grab another. No, I'd better take 3 or 4. So now I'm ready to march back upstairs and remove the dearly departed. I stand back and then take another step backwards and realize I'm too far from the toilet. I move forward a step and lean down and dip the barbeque tongs into the toilet. The sound of the tongs hitting the water caused me to jump for some reason. Did the mouse just move? Oh God oh God oh God, is this rigor mortis setting in, or is it still alive and just "swimming" in my toilet? I dip the tongs in the water once more and inch towards the mouse and then tap it with the tongs and am met with a thick souding "thonk." Definitely dead. Probably for several hours. Ewwwwwwww. I gag a little. Once more I attempt to steady my nerves and reach in and grab the mouse. Only, I didn't. I get close but no cigar. A little voice inside my head yelled; "JUST DO IT ALREADY!" One...two...three, quickly I reach in, grab the mouse, gag, and toss it on the trash bin liner on the floor.
After I removed Captain Morgan from the toilet I ran around the 2nd floor of the house, doing something akin to a "gross-out" dance. Captain Morgan was now reposed on the bathroom floor. I needed to take a moment to shake off the heebie jeebies I suffered whilst removing him from the toilet.
I did have a brief but nonetheless terrifying "Stephen King" moment when I let my mind wander (it does this so easily these days) and thought about the mouse suddenly re-animating and coming after me. I pinched myself and said; "get a hold of yourself girl, just because you live in the same state as King and in the same area as a few of his books were set, DOES NOT mean Captain Morgan is going to come getcha!"... I also wanted to get my camera from my bags (that are being packed for my upcoming trip to the UK). Well ok, maybe taking a picture of the dearly departed isn't something you would have done, but this is me after all. Besides, now that I am writing about it, and feeling how cathartic it is, I'm glad I have the photo.
And as much as I'd like to have given him a proper Christian burial, or at the least, send Captain Morgan off much the same way pirates of old went - just take him down the road and dump him in the ocean, I just couldn't do it. I'd have looked pretty stupid trying to toss a dead mouse into the ocean whilst dry heaving at the same time. I'll say a few "our Fathers" and toss in one or two "Hail Mary's" for good measure. And now, before I go completely stark raving mad, (which as of right now, is a very short trip for me) I’d just like to send a general note to the animals of the area....
STOP COMING TO ME TO DIE!!!! I am not the Dead Animal Whisperer!
I'm pretty fastidious about putting the toilet seat lid down, after using it. For some reason though, last night I didn't. This has definitely assured that I will never leave that sucker up...ever again!
I have never seen a mouse, let alone in a house, let alone in MY house. A chipmunk, yes - as most of you witnessed from last summer. And that chipmunk was not in the least bit "metabolically challenged" if you get my drift! Add to that, I'm a clean freak, I don't leave stuff lying around and more often than not, I usually annoy family and friends due to my cleaning habits. Ask the hubby - he thinks I am OCD when it comes to cleaning, and I’m sure my family would agree with this. So why the hell this mouse, decided to come and die in my upstairs bathroom toilet, is beyond me!
Right when I think I've got the dry heaves from yesterday's melodrama with the dead cat in my car engine, done and over with, I find this! I was going to flush it down the toilet but after a conversation with the hubby he suggested NOT doing that as it may block the pipes and I didn't want to have to deal with telling a plumber what stupid thing I did to clog the toilet up. It's not like it was a little goldfish. The hubby told me just to "take it out and dispose of it" as if it were simply a bar of soap that got dropped into the toilet. MEN!
I stood and looked at the dead mouse floating in my pristine white toilet bowl. Seashells and candles adorned the top of the tank, and for some reason I felt as if all of that had been tainted. I was certain I'd never get the traces of 'dead mouse' removed from my toilet. And just how the hell was I going to get the mouse out of there? I was NOT going to just reach in and grab the damned thing.
It's not like I can call the county coroner and have him come take it away in his little black van. So I did what any other modern housewife who's husband just happens to be 4000 miles away would do. Don't even think for a minute that had he been here, that he wouldn't be the one doing this! Just sayin'! I donned surgical gloves (I keep a box in the garage for my wood refinishing projects), heavier dishwashing gloves, snow-shoveling gloves over those, jeans, a t-shirt, another sweatshirt over that, socks and then finally boots, after debating about whether my Air-Force Ones (I have no idea why I wore such ridiulous sneakers back then) were appropriate dead-mouse retrieval shoes....and for good measure I put my hair up. I almost felt up to the task except I hadn't given any consideration to what I was actually going to fetch him up out of the toilet with.
I went out and got the garden hoe out of the garage and when I got back upstairs with it, I discovered it wouldn't fit into the toilet bowl. I didn't have anything else handy and I started to panic, thinking I was going to have to actually reach in and take it out...WITH MY HANDS! About that time I considered calling a pest removal company and then thought about it for a moment. I'd have to actually telephone them, and as it was still very early there wasn't likely anyone around to come and fetch the mouse until a bit later. I wasn't comfortable with having the deceased present in my home for much longer. Plus, what does one say when enquiring about dead animal retrieval...."Hello - does your company offer dead mouse removal? Oh, where is this dead mouse you ask?" And then I thought the hubby probably wasn't going to be real pleased that I was about to spend money on something I could take care of myself. Then I thought about that money and how I could probably go to Macy's later on this afternoon and spend it there, I figured that was the lesser of two evils. Besides, I think I deserve it at this point!
I took the hoe back down to the garage and looked around for something, anything I can use to retrieve Captain Morgan from the toilet. I have since given the mouse a name, feeling it's the right thing to do, as he's now spent the last moments of his life in my toilet, in my home. I gave him the name of a pirate because he commandeered my toilet facilities without permission, much the same way any pirate of old would have done! Also I live along the water where many ships have met their demise. It just seemed fitting. Being that he was a gray sort of mouse rather than a dark sort, I would have settled on Blackbeard.
So I'm looking for something with which to retrieve Captain Morgan from his watery grave and I spy the barbeque and hanging from it are a rather long set of tongs with large flat grabber things at the end. Perfect! Those will due just fine. I'll pick up anew pair this afternoon while I'm out. I don't think I'll be using these again. I'll grab them while I'm out getting more bleach to sanitize the bathroom.
I go back inside and upstairs, but stop to grab a trash bin liner. On 2nd thought, I'll grab another. No, I'd better take 3 or 4. So now I'm ready to march back upstairs and remove the dearly departed. I stand back and then take another step backwards and realize I'm too far from the toilet. I move forward a step and lean down and dip the barbeque tongs into the toilet. The sound of the tongs hitting the water caused me to jump for some reason. Did the mouse just move? Oh God oh God oh God, is this rigor mortis setting in, or is it still alive and just "swimming" in my toilet? I dip the tongs in the water once more and inch towards the mouse and then tap it with the tongs and am met with a thick souding "thonk." Definitely dead. Probably for several hours. Ewwwwwwww. I gag a little. Once more I attempt to steady my nerves and reach in and grab the mouse. Only, I didn't. I get close but no cigar. A little voice inside my head yelled; "JUST DO IT ALREADY!" One...two...three, quickly I reach in, grab the mouse, gag, and toss it on the trash bin liner on the floor.
After I removed Captain Morgan from the toilet I ran around the 2nd floor of the house, doing something akin to a "gross-out" dance. Captain Morgan was now reposed on the bathroom floor. I needed to take a moment to shake off the heebie jeebies I suffered whilst removing him from the toilet.
I did have a brief but nonetheless terrifying "Stephen King" moment when I let my mind wander (it does this so easily these days) and thought about the mouse suddenly re-animating and coming after me. I pinched myself and said; "get a hold of yourself girl, just because you live in the same state as King and in the same area as a few of his books were set, DOES NOT mean Captain Morgan is going to come getcha!"... I also wanted to get my camera from my bags (that are being packed for my upcoming trip to the UK). Well ok, maybe taking a picture of the dearly departed isn't something you would have done, but this is me after all. Besides, now that I am writing about it, and feeling how cathartic it is, I'm glad I have the photo.
And as much as I'd like to have given him a proper Christian burial, or at the least, send Captain Morgan off much the same way pirates of old went - just take him down the road and dump him in the ocean, I just couldn't do it. I'd have looked pretty stupid trying to toss a dead mouse into the ocean whilst dry heaving at the same time. I'll say a few "our Fathers" and toss in one or two "Hail Mary's" for good measure. And now, before I go completely stark raving mad, (which as of right now, is a very short trip for me) I’d just like to send a general note to the animals of the area....
STOP COMING TO ME TO DIE!!!! I am not the Dead Animal Whisperer!
