A mouse in the house
My grandpa's name is Mickey.
My mom is a Mickie, too.
And Mickey Mouse was my main man growing up, even though most other kids liked Goofy and my cousin preferred Figment.
But with the exception of those three things, I don't like real life Mickeys. Especially not the little guy who visited my desk last week. This newsroom saga started at the desk of Velda Hunter, who sat directly across from me until she moved desks Monday. The plastic rim on her can of mixed nuts had been gnawed. The mouse never broke through the seal, but he worked hard on it for a while.
The next day I realized the bottom drawer of my filing cabinet had been hit. Two or three packets of half-eaten crackers were left behind, along with remnants revealing the mouse left with a full stomach. Yuck.
My editor Kathie Rowell, who sits to my right, became a victim the following day. A piece of Dove dark chocolate sat in her top drawer, unwrapped and almost completely gone.
We'd been hit hard and this little mouse didn't discriminate -- salty, sweet, whatever would fill his tummy. Or at least that's what we thought. A pack of cereal bars in my bottom drawer have never been disturbed. I guess even mice don't like to eat healthy.
There have been no signs of our Office Mickey for almost a week now. I keep waiting for something crawl across the top of my foot.
My mom is a Mickie, too.
And Mickey Mouse was my main man growing up, even though most other kids liked Goofy and my cousin preferred Figment.
But with the exception of those three things, I don't like real life Mickeys. Especially not the little guy who visited my desk last week. This newsroom saga started at the desk of Velda Hunter, who sat directly across from me until she moved desks Monday. The plastic rim on her can of mixed nuts had been gnawed. The mouse never broke through the seal, but he worked hard on it for a while.
The next day I realized the bottom drawer of my filing cabinet had been hit. Two or three packets of half-eaten crackers were left behind, along with remnants revealing the mouse left with a full stomach. Yuck.
My editor Kathie Rowell, who sits to my right, became a victim the following day. A piece of Dove dark chocolate sat in her top drawer, unwrapped and almost completely gone.
We'd been hit hard and this little mouse didn't discriminate -- salty, sweet, whatever would fill his tummy. Or at least that's what we thought. A pack of cereal bars in my bottom drawer have never been disturbed. I guess even mice don't like to eat healthy.
There have been no signs of our Office Mickey for almost a week now. I keep waiting for something crawl across the top of my foot.
posted by Stephanie Netherton at 3:13 PM
7 Comments:
Actually, your grandfather's name is not Mickey...
You're right, but have you ever heard anyone call him Ben? Or B.E.?
I'm glad we had rats and not mice in our old house. With rats, I'm like, "Kill that sucker right NOW!", but with mice, I'd be like, "Awww, wook at the wittle mousey" and I'd probably put out food for it to eat like it was a pet....until it gave me rabies or something at least.
Your logic is a little off, but I got a kick out of it anyway.
I was watching a movie at the house of some of my guy friends in college. In the middle of the movie a brave little mouse ran into the middle of the room. I'd never heard so many guys scream like little girls. I'll just say, I wasn't the only one standing on the couch in fear!
My beagle likes to kill rats. He has personally handled about 5 or 6 of them in the back yard.
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There's this white cat that stalks the mice in the empty field next to my neighborhood. I don't know where the cat lives but I'm sure it has brought its owner an occasional suprise.
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