The Great Mouse Detectives

"WHAT is that smell?" my new roommate Allison asked.

Having just moved in, I assumed she was questioning my ability to keep a clean kitchen (which would not only be smart, but completely logical). I initially chalked it up to the nearby trash can, but she soon began to move the refrigerator out from the wall.

Curious, I walked over. The fan in the back of the fridge seemed to waft the smell in my direction as if to say, "See, I told ya!"

With our recent mice problem solved (or so we think), it only makes sense to assume that these tricky, sacrificial mice did what all mice tend to do. Because they can't heroically burn at the stake for their little mouse causes, they choose to go out with a bang in other ways.

One of the first things they probably learn in mouse theological school is to, after taking rat poison, crawl into the tiniest, most obscure crevice of a human home and die...and rot...and smell. They may not be able to outdo the humans forever, but they can sure have the last word...or smell, rather.

After unscrewing the back of the fridge and cleaning the debris, I took up flashlight duties while Allison searched for the deceased creature. After a half-terrified, half-excited declaration that she spotted a tail, we found our little culprit.

I felt like I was helping during an intrinsic surgery.

"Plastic fork."

Passed it.

"Another plastic fork."

Done.

"Paper plate to put him on."

Gag. Done.

She meticulously picked up the little guy, using the two forks like chopsticks to pick up Mr. Stinky. We put him in two plastic bags, knotted it tight and threw it outside in the trash can immediately. After this traumatic event, I did what I always do in situations such as these. I sprayed everything in sight with Febreeze.

It has never been proven that Febreeze really does anything, but it makes you feel like your house is no longer as nasty as it is in reality. If life had a perfume, it would choose Febreeze.

This whole rodent journey over the past few months has been hysterical. Seeing a bunch of girls take on scurrying terrors is a memory that will forever be etched in my mind. It's gotten to the point where my roommate can just give me the "mouse face," in which she knocks on my door, bites her lip, her eyes get really wide and she just points.

There are no words involved; I just know that I should slowly make my way to the kitchen and prepare to don my mouse detective duties.

If cats didn't creep me out more, and I didn't wake up with this uncontainable fear that my face was going to get clawed off, I would get one to help out with the problem. I think I'll just take my chances...