Late one night you are woken from vague dreams by the sound of a gentle scratching. Is it behind the mirror or somewhere deep within the chest of draws ? Upon your return to sleep you hope the scratching will disappear. But an hour later, when you wake and the scratching has become a gnaw, you realise a Napoleon has set up shop in your little room. You now have a companion like no other you have ever had before.
Rooming houses are a haven for mice. Just place yourself in their position. Food and warmth in every room: the cat, a natural enemy of the mouse, having been denied access by an intolerant landlord: countless nooks and crannies in ancient walls where furred animals sleep all day, then emerge at dusk to raid the larder, keeping you awake for the entire night. What more could a lost rodent ask for ? A rooming house is paradise for the homeless mouse.
Initially, you tolerate your new found friend. At night, he scratches and gnaws somewhere... But when you do see him scurry across the open space between the wardrobe and the door, he reminds you of a furred toy you played with as a child. Those tiny brown eyes, those pink ears and cute claws. The way in which he wiggles his nose in order to get a bead on you. He’s a nice mouse, and he is your friend and no-one else’s. Until, of course, he wants to share your loaf of bread and bag of rice. Until, of course, you wake one morning and find footprints in the frypan and mouse droppings scattered across last night’s dinner plate. But, you say to yourself, as long as he keeps his disturbance to a minimum, everything will be fine. And you remind yourself that he is your friend, that friends must be tolerant of one another's ‘inconsistencies’. That this is what friends are for...
Mice are incorrigible survivors. They will climb three tenuous metres of electrical cord and chew through a plastic bag containing two minute noodles. They will tear-up strips of carpet and create access points beneath gaps under doors. When a mouse arrives in your room rest assured it will invade and occupy the premises, making you feel like the uninvited guest. Do not make unnecessary noise during the daylight hours, you say to yourself, it might wake the mouse. Do not leave the bread out overnight, and make sure each and every dish is washed, dried, and safely stored away. Otherwise, your fast fading little friend will have his way with each utensil, with all and every type of food available. Until one day, three or four months after the mouse first appeared, you are lying in bed when it canters across the open space between the wardrobe and the door, rears up, and stares you straight in the eye. Defeated, you look away. And just accept that Mighty Mouse is in the rooming house and he is now in complete control.
Then, when autumn has waned and the forlorn glow of winter fills your room, the mouse disappears. Perhaps it was the poison the pest controller gave you. An evil black block emblazoned with a skull and crossbones that could disable a rhinoceros. It certainly wasn’t the dozen or so mouse traps that peppered the kitchen floor. (Mighty Mouse had worked these out; he would steal the bait then leap into the air, out of the line of fire). Whatever it was that got him, it no longer matters. For Mighty Mouse has gone to that great grey larder in the sky. Your room belongs to you again. The bread can remain on the kitchen table. The dishes don’t have to be washed and stored away night after night after night... You are free to come and go as you please, no longer intimidated by that four legged eating machine. That marauding little ball of fur who by his very unwelcomed presence embodied that famous statement: ‘This town ain’t big enough for the two of us’.
*
Come springtime, late at night or early in the morning, you are woken by the sound of much scratching and gnawing, of much ripping up of paper and what sounds like two battalions at war behind the chest of draws. Yes, that’s right. The mouse you thought was a he was in fact a she, and your new found family is happy to have caught you at home.
No comments:
Post a Comment