There’s something living in the basement.
And it’s not anything I’ve married or birthed.
Something…critterish. Rodentlike. Not invited, not wanted.
For those who may not know, I loathe rodents. I don’t care if it’s mice, rats, gerbils, hamsters. DEATH TO ALL!
Especially if they’re running loose in the basement.
Seriously, my kids aren’t even allowed rodent pets. Just…no. No, no, no, no, no.
I know folks that swear that rats make awesome pets. And that’s great. For their house. And, as much as I love and adore and completely fangirl over The Bloggess, I would completely run shrieking if someone sent me a taxidermied rodent. I don’t care what outfit its wearing.
I discovered in science class in college, I don’t even handle freeze-dried, already dissected and labelled rats well. Noooope.
I don’t care if they’re alive or dead, rodents freak me right the heck out.
Frankly, if I don’t have a phobia, it’s dang close. I literally shake, shriek, and want to throw up when something scurries by.
Wolf, who works from the basement, as his escape from the Minion chaos, announces that he needs to get some traps. He’s hearing ‘scrabbling’. And not as in, playing Scrabble, either.
‘I’ll pick up some mouse traps.” he says.
“Do you think they’ll be big enough?” I ask, because I’m the one that discovered the hole in the basement, and it seems, well, a bit LARGE for a mere mouse. “You may discover a paw in the trap.”
He thinks about this, and nods, slowly. “I’ll see if they have bigger traps.”
“Remember the rules!” I remind him.
“I know, I know,” he says, tiredly. “Dispose of it down stairs.”
“Yes. No carrying it through the house. No, “Hey, come see this!” Just bag it and get rid of it.”
“And if there’s any squealing or shrieking, YOU get to take care of it.”
“You know…for someone that’s all gung-ho for moving to an acreage, you seem to only look at the good things.”
“Hey! I don’t do rodents. Everyone knows that.”
“So, you’re good with moving to an acreage, as long as you don’t deal with rodents.”
“Absolutely. That’s what I have a husband for. And kids.”
Geez, does the man think I don’t consider this stuff?
I looked at Wolf, “You realize, if it’s in the basement it can get upstairs?!”
“Unless it runs up the leg of your pajamas, you’re fine.” he assured me.
“I AM NEVER TAKING MY FOOTIE JAMMIES OFF. EVER!”
“I suppose I shouldn’t tell you about the cabin I slept in…”
“…where the mouse ran across our sleeping bags at night…”
“I SAID SHUSH!”
“…Or that big…”
He sat there, smirking at me, and opened his mouth again.
“NOT. ONE. WORD.”
“It was about a dead–”
“ONE MORE WORD, AND I’M DIVORCING YOU!”
And he laughed. The man laughed at me.
See how funny he thinks he is when the next time he’s in the basement, I barricade the door and refuse to let him up.