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When the mouse first ran toward me,
it was like all Africa on the loose
charging across the Serengheti Plain,
and so I mounted a defense with my
bare hands, and threw my
laptop at him, then ran for higher ground,
but the mouse thundered off and
disappeared, later scurrying openly
like some business man late
for an appointment right
in front of my son while he was trying
to watch his HBO On Demand, later yet
while Sandy talked on an
important union conference
call, until the day finally arrived
when Jamie looked calmly at me, as one
would look at a mangy lion grown too old to
rule the pride, and demanded, "Bring us
the body by Sunday," and so I fled to the hardware
store, and in came the 6 spring traps,
8 sticky traps, 2 ultrasonic sound
generators "with electronic
pulse," 4 poison packs, and 1 live trap
which I lovingly baited with smoked
gouda cheese and my beloved
roasted almonds ("unsalted"),
or, as Sandy put it, just what I would
have used had I wanted to catch
myself, but the mouse has seen this all
before, and sat laughing, most probably
in some quiet corner of my paper- strewn
study, practically convulsing over
this serious lack of imagination,
and just kept rumbling through our
lives like a 18-wheeler on the loose,
carrying as cargo all my fears, and
most probably a dozen baby mice, because
this thing was huge, a real
"house mouse," as Sandy put it.
It was already Saturday.
Barricaded on Brook St.
August 19, 2005