EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK

I am sitting at my usual early morning perch on the couch, applying my make up in front of the TV, listening to Katie Couric prattle on about Prom Looks For Pennies. As I raise my compact in front of my face and pull my mascara wand out of its tube, I hear a faint rustling from the kitchen. My ears perk and I lower my compact, eyes darting towards the kitchen. On the counter--my counter--I see it. A dark, rounded, gyrating creature with a narrow tail snaking around its body. We lock gazes as a blood-curdling, high-pitched scream releases from my lungs. The creature scurries away. I scream again. My gut recoils and my heart races like a thoroughbred. I become paralyzed on the couch; a whimpering, helpless giant desperately afraid of that tiny creature, that disgusting thing in my kitchen on my counter.

I pick up my phone and speed-dial Mark. He just left for work, maybe he can come back and save me from this monster. He doesn't answer. I leave him a message: Mark there's a mouse in our kitchen and I'm scared and I don't know what to do about it. I say in one breath before letting out a wail. Please call me if you get this or come back right away!

I put down the phone and slowly unglue myself from the couch. Maybe I didn't see anything. I'm sleepy, and my vision isn't that strong to begin with. Maybe it was just the salt shaker or a piece of silverware I saw on the counter. I get up, do some yoga breaths, and move into the bedroom. I pull a sweater over my head walk to the bathroom. The reflection I see in the mirror is a frazzled, shaken, and ghost-white face. I scold it. What's wrong with you? Calm down! that there is absolutely nothing in the kitchen but pots and pans and dishes!

But I don't believe those words. That thing I saw on the counter--my counter--is there and I can't leave for work without doing something, anything, about it. My heart racing like a thoroughbred, I march back to the kitchen. I look at the counter and see two tiny grayish brown velvety ears poking over the lip of my favorite Le Creuset pan containing a batch of double fudge brownies. I crane my neck and see the narrow tail snaking around his plump, body, tiny paws stuffing wads of spongy chocolate into his cheeks like a squirrel gathering nuts for the winter. My gut recoils and another scream tries to escape my lungs but I halt it before it reaches my mouth. He's just a cute little thing, I say aloud between labored breaths. Harmless. Just wants some brownies. Let him be.

But the image of an army of rodents infiltrating my kitchen, my counter, my pantries, my home creeps into my head. I can't let him be. He'll bring back his friends. I have to get rid of him. Now. I seek a weapon within reach. Behind me are two Lenox candlesticks. I can hit him over the head with one, just to stun him. But what are the chances that I'll actually make contact? Most likely I'll crack the ivory porcelain instead of his head. In front of me is a set of knives. Smooth, shiny, razor sharp. With one swipe, the big butcher knife would take off this creature's twitching head. Or I can spear him in the stomach with a slicer. Ugh. There's no way I can deal with the clean-up, the blood and the gore. So I stand still and watch him, still brazenly stuffing his cheeks with wads of double fudge brownies. I take a step closer. He senses my movement and jumps up, slipping beneath the layer of foil (loosely) covering my favorite Le Creuset pan, immersing his tiny but plump body into a luxury suite where the walls and floors are made of double fudge chocolate.

Without hesitation, I grab three dishtowels and throw them on top of the pan and the loose foil. Gotcha. I grab the pan and I hold it at arm's length. I walk out the door and down the steps and down the hallway and feel the chilled air that guides me to an open door. I stealthily move toward the door, knowing I'm just feet away from releasing this city mouse back to the streets where he can forage on somebody's else's brownies and perch on top of somebody else's counter. I reach the mail room. I hear a rustle. I feel movement beneath my fingers grasping the pan and the towels. I scream, a blood-curdling, high-pitched scream. I stop and say to no one in particular, THERE'S A MOUSE IN HERE!

A blonde woman, short and stout and bundled in a cream-colored coat appears behind me. She laughs. "Nope, there WAS a mouse in there. But you just lost him. He's gone."

Or was he?