Ray St. Louis
10/28/02
BETWEEN THE LINES
There’s a mouse living in my kitchen. I hear him in the middle of the night, gnawing, rustling things.
I hear him but I don’t see him. That’s what scares me.
If I could see the mouse just once, I would know that he is just a mouse like any other mouse. Unseen, he
takes on special qualities.
He is the mouse from hell, with teeth like a mechanical wood chipper’s. He is big, like a rat, or a wolverine.
He is devious. He knows what he’s doing. His intent is to terrorize me. He is the Osama Bin Laden of mice.
No doubt he is planning acts of mass destruction.
Already, I am afraid to open my cabinet doors, afraid of what I’ll find. Holes gnawed in boxes of Rice
Krispies or Uncle Ben’s Converted Rice. Loaves of bread and bags of flour rendered unfit for human
consumption. Shelves littered with crumbs, shredded cardboard and little black mouse turds.
I take special measures. I load up my small seemingly impenetrable breadbox with as much dry foodstuff
as it will hold. I fill the refrigerator with items than do not require refrigeration.
I cease to buy boxed or bagged food at the grocery store. Let the little evildoer try chewing on cans of
baked beans or whole kernel corn - unsalted, no sugar added.
I quit opening my kitchen cabinet doors altogether.
Even as I take extra precautions, I realize the mouse is winning. He has caused me to change my life
habits. He has successfully altered my daily routine.
This is unacceptable. I cannot allow this situation to continue. I cannot go on living in fear.
The time has come to strike back.
First, I must let the mouse know, in no uncertain terms, that I mean business. I begin to position my
heavy guns – mousetraps baited with little chunks of cheddar cheese. I do not yet set the traps, I merely
want the mouse to see them and think about their awesome power.
The mouse responds by eating the little chunks of cheese. He is taunting me.
Obviously, I have not convincingly delivered my message. I draw up little posters with a picture of a
mouse in the cross hairs of a rifle scope and the words “Wanted Dead or Alive.” I place the posters
strategically around my house. Low, near the floor, at mouse eye level.
I invent a color-coded warning system. I place my household under the highest level of vigilance: gray
alert.
Still the mouse strikes back, even bolder than before. No longer is he content to terrorize the kitchen. He
has expanded his sphere of operation into the bedroom, the heartland. I awaken to the sounds of
rustling emanating from the vicinity of the dresser.
No more fooling around. I set the traps.
Next morning, two of the traps are sprung, stripped of cheese, no mouse. This war is going to be more
difficult than I thought.
I am currently preparing the next phase of my war on rodent-related terror. I have many options.
I could bomb, although I consider that particular option a last resort since it would result in considerable
collateral damage in terms of poisonous residue left on dishes, clothing and furniture.
I could send in special forces: my neighbor’s cats.
I could suspend the civil liberties of all those living in the house. Initiate a curfew. Install secret
surveillance cameras. Monitor all outgoing email.
Or, I could do the one thing that is sure to make that mouse’s existence a living nightmare: create an
office of homeland security.
If traps don’t scare him, let’s see how he likes unwieldy, suffocating bureaucracy.