Today I heard Fufu rattling around on one of my shelves, and when I turned to look, I saw a DEAD MOUSE. In her MOUTH. Huaugh.
Okay, yes, I admit it: I am squeamish. First about dead things and decay and maggots smells and ick ick ick. Second, about mice, because of the time when I was 15 and I tried to rescue a mouse from my step-mom’s cat and the damn thing ran up my leg – INSIDE my jeans. It still gives me the heebie-jeebies just thinking about it.
So hey, by coincidence, DrBob is home, and really, what are husbands for, right? I mean, if the gods meant for me to deal with this, it would’ve happened sometime in the last two weeks, when he was gone. Right? So I dashed downstairs and blithered, and he said no because he was watching skiing on TV.
So my fabulous little Sniglet decided to man up and take care of the problem. He asked me for a glove, and he got the little corpse away from the cat, and he took it to the garbage with nary a dry heave. I’m so proud. Of him. Not so proud of myself, but you know, if I hadn’t been such a wuss, he wouldn’t have had this opportunity to shine, would he? So maybe my utter, pathetic weenieness was a good thing after all.
Yeah. I like that explanation.
Song du jour of the day: I Need a Hero, by Bonnie Tyler.