(reading time 150 seconds)
Mother was a strong, quiet woman, born on the barren North Dakota plains with a natural work ethic and an ingrained resolve to endure hardships. She had her share - starting her family of five at a tender age with an older, domineering husband. Hard working and even harder-drinking, he was emotionally abusive and when they argued or fought, as they often did, she clammed up and went to work. There were storm windows or screens to be placed on the two story house, a lawn to mow or a driveway to shovel. And then there were the standard necessities of raising her brood.
Day after day, year after year, she did it all silently, soberly going about her business and ours. But on a rare occasion a simple uninvited guest could fracture my image of this strong-willed homemaker into an animated, shrieking stranger.
The appearance of a mouse.
It didn't happen often, but if a darting little intruder were spotted, I watched her climb onto the nearest chair, couch or dining room table. It was a transformation that baffles me to this day.
It's been said you marry your mother and indeed, I did settle in with a strong, independent hard worker, a proud and reserved South Carolinian. She had a career accommodating demanding frequent fliers as she adjusted to relocations - at one point moving 10 times in 11 years. More importantly, she's endured catastrophic losses of loved ones, swallowing her emotions to spare others' suffering as she retreated into silent pain. In her volunteer work with children in dependency, she can put logic before surface feelings (a talent I envy). She's tough.
Except when a mouse appears.
Vacationing recently on the edge of the Southern Utah desert, she awoke just prior to dawn to see a gray blur racing along the shower wall. It was an early day for both of us and my first duty was to get traps. "It was a big rat!"
It set up my trap line to nail that lil' sucker and in the meantime she did some research. She found a cell phone app that emits a high-pitched frequency inaudible to the human ear, but penetrating to any approaching rodent. She also read that furry gray blurs avoid light, so ours stayed on all night.
The next day, success, as the sneaky devil succumbed to salami bait. It was not a rat, but a regular house mouse - a very healthy one. Our troubles were over until the next morning. The thyroid pill she'd carefully placed on top of a cup was missing and the thief left behind a little calling card. "That rat ate my thyroid pill. We're leaving!"
Calming discussion followed as I exercised my wildlife wisdom that rodents don't share intellectual reasoning and scheming the way humans do. They were not focused on terrorizing my darling wife. Not until she opened the dishwasher.
Screaming in the kitchen never heard before gave me the image of severed fingers. But no, a mouse ("That rat!") was in the dishwasher, darting this way and that in an effort to escape. We have no idea how he got into a closed appliance, but I couldn't reach him. So, like any reasonable hero, I came up with an easy solution. Turn the thing on.
Somehow, mousey made it through two wash and dry cycles, likely refreshed even in his hyperthyroid state. So it was back to the store for more traps. The clerk upon hearing my tale, said I should be thankful it wasn't a much bigger pack rat so prevalent in the region. That night, the washed-and-dried invader made the fatal nibble on a chunk of salami. (Tip: that bait works better than peanut butter).
There was cautious celebration, but she put an exclamation point on her fear. Given a choice of having a mouse or a rattlesnake in the dishwasher, she'd prefer the reptile. She did not wish to see the victim, nor the container/casket used to send it to Neverland, nor could I reuse the trap. I will say that the mouse's ("rat's") eyes were bulging - either from the thyroid overdose or the neck-snapping metal clamp. Apparently it's a deadly combination.
Before we left the next day we took a quick tour of the nearby no-kill animal sanctuary in Kanab, UT - the largest in the country. They have horses, dogs, cats, donkeys, rabbits and some exotic animals biding their final days in peaceful serenity. I did not ask about mice.
What I still don't understand is the basic fear such strong women have of mice. They were dreaded long before hantavirus made news headlines. Could this fear be traced back to the good old days, when rats spread bubonic plague?
I assume the powerful reaction is a learned behavior, but I know better than to try to correct it.
