Of mice and women

For the most part, I have a live-and-let live philosophy with wild animals.

I tolerate squirrels eating some of the sunflowers I buy for the birds, plant enough garden so there's some to "share" with the deer and leave skunks alone as long as they leave me and my family alone.

I draw the line, though, with mice. The little vermin, more than any other animals, are persistent, especially this time of year, about invading my personal space. I don't know whether it's worse to catch a glimpse of a mouse scurrying across the living room floor or to open a kitchen drawer and find tell-tale signs of a mouse visit.

The visits from mice are nothing new, of course, and seem to be a part of country life, particularly in the fall when they are on the prowl for a warm, comfortable place to spend the winter.

Close encounters

I'll never forget the time when I was growing up on the farm when my sister Bonnie stuck her foot in her winter boot, then realized she had stepped on a mouse. Her shrieks echoed through the house as she flung the boot and the mouse went sailing across the living room.

Mice have caused me to utter some screams of my own over the years. It's not that I am seriously frightened of them, it's more the surprise factor. Just the other day I lifted the lid to the horses' feed and a mouse leaped out of the barrel as I simultaneously jumped back and screeched something about rotten little rodents.

Some fall mornings, though, I don't even make it outside of the house before I encounter mice - usually in the form of carcasses. Jessie, our indoor cat, spends her nights on the prowl in the basement or sitting in front of the radiators or tiny holes between the door frame and walls on the main where mice can squeeze in.

We know that she's been successful when we hear her run up and down the upstairs hall and meow loudly in the middle of the night. The problem is we never know where we'll find the mouse. Meanwhile, by the time I wake up the next morning I've often forgotten about Jessie's announcement - until I step on the mouse.

There's nothing to wake you up like the feel of a soft, furry little body squishing under your toes. Because my discoveries are usually made in the pre-dawn hours before everyone is up I try to stifle my involuntary vocal reaction. Instead, I grab a paper towel and deposit the mouse in a plastic bag so I can later put it in the dumpster.

I just have to be sure that I don't get the bag confused with my lunch. Once the mouse almost ended up going to work. Imagine the surprise of my co-workers if I had opened my bag at work and started screaming.

Cold realityWhile we usually find the mice when the body is still warm, sometimes rigger mortis already has set in. The other day I picked up a rug to vacuum and a stiff carcass was stretched out beneath it. Fortunately, it hadn't yet started to smell.

Though finding the mice is unnerving, it's even worse when you can smell them and can't find them. After moving every piece of furniture and going through every drawer, we have to give up because we know that the mice have died behind the walls. Then the only thing we can do is to wait until nature takes care of the decomposing process.

Because I've lived with the reality of mice and other rodents I've never understood why companies make them into "cute" stuffed animals or why they've become such a popular children's book and animated movie characters.

I'm with Tom the cartoon cat: I hate those "meeces" to pieces.