“Never let the facts get in the way of a good true story.”
--Jim Batten
My wife, Francie, is a wildlife rehabilitator. She has a tender heart. She is known as the "Squirrel Whisperer", and a fierce defender of woodland creatures everywhere. But for at least one night, this was not the case. Our first-born son, Will, was barely one-week old at the time. And although I would never suggest that post-partum “issues” had anything to do with it, my sweet wife declared war on all rodents that night. And I was drafted into the front lines of her army.
That night started out peacefully. The young parents finally had the new baby to sleep, and were hoping to get some much needed rest. It was a tranquil domestic scene worthy of Norman Rockwell. But not for long. As expected, my slumber was soon interrupted; not by Will announcing that he was hungry, but by those three little words every husband loves to hear in the middle of the night, “Are you awake?”
"No."
And then the three words that always follow, "I hear something!"
"It's nothing, go back to sleep."
"It's in the curtains!"
"Must be the wind, go back to sleep."
"Wake up Bryan! There's something in the house, and it's after our baby!"
Now awake through no choice of my own, I did hear a faint metallic clicking; "Tink-tink, Tink-tink.” I made one last bid to save what was left of my sleep, "Whatever it is it can’t be big enough to hurt anything."
"Bryan Hodges, you get up right now and see what it is!"
Reluctantly, I reached over and turned on the light. Lying on my back, looking up and just a little behind gave me a perfect view into the mini-blinds covering the window by our bed. From this position, I saw a small furry object doing a tight wire act across the mini-blinds; "Tink-tink, Tink-tink". It disappeared behind the curtains, and then reappeared on top.
"What is it?" She nervously inquired.
"A mouse."
"What's he doing up there?"
"Well it looks like a half-gainer off the curtain rod!" Because at that exact moment our furry visitor launched himself out into space over the bed. He landed on the floor and took off down the hall. “Hey! It’s raining rodents!” I said, trying to add a little levity to the situation. The blood-curdling scream was the first clue that my lovely bride was not nearly as amused as I was.
"Kill it!" She cried.
"With what?"
"Anything, just kill it!"
"How 'bout I call an exterminator in the morning?"
"No! That rat is after my baby!"
I noticed that "our baby" had become "her baby" but I decided that now was not the time to bring it up.
"It's just a little mouse, and it's not after anybody." I protested.
"Bryan Hodges, get up and save my baby from that rat!"
My full name had been used twice in the span of 10 seconds--never a good sign. It was clear that Momma Bear felt her cub was threatened, and if Papa Bear ever wanted to sleep in the nice warm cave again, he needed to do something—Right now!
As I stumbled down the hall, there he was--right in the middle of the floor, daring me to chase him. I dove as he deftly sidestepped my grasp and bounded into the spare bedroom. The chase was on! The Mighty Hunter was on the trail of Big Game! I slammed the door shut, and shoved a towel in the crack at the bottom of the door. That oughta hold him while I figure out what to do.
I took a minute to clear my head and to evaluate my opponent. He had a huge advantage in speed and maneuverability; I had the brains. But what I needed was a weapon. So I went to the garage and grabbed a boat oar.
I’m not sure what possessed me to choose a boat oar, but it is worth pointing out that in my younger days I played baseball. Back then I was known as a "slick fielding middle infielder.” This was just a nice way of saying “He can’t hit, and he’s too slow to play the outfield." So in hindsight, this was probably not the wisest choice.
I entered the spare bedroom, clicked on the lamp, and readjusted the towel. Now when I say "spare bedroom", what I really mean is a 10' x 8' glorified closet, with a twin bed, small table, and one lamp. It was Man vs. Mouse in a winner take all cage match. Only one was coming out alive! Speed and agility against brains and a boat oar. Game on!
I lowered my face to the floor and peered under the bed. Not two feet away sat the vile creature that was out to get our baby. No bigger than a ping-pong ball; with big round ears, a twitching nose, and long whiskers--he looked like he just stepped out of a Disney cartoon.
"Francie, come look at him. He's not hurting anything, he's actually kinda cute."
"No he's not! Quit stalling and kill it!"
All my efforts to reach a peaceful solution had failed. The only way to restore domestic tranquility was to carry out my orders. I removed the mattress, raised the boat oar and swung. He jumped aside and ran into the corner. Strike one! I swung again, this time making solid contact--with an 8 x 10 framed photograph of my mother-in-law. It broke into a million pieces.
From the other side of the door I heard, "Did you kill it?"
"No, but I think your Mom's in critical condition!"
"Quit playing around and kill it!"
I was down to my last strike. My manhood was being questioned. I caught the glint of challenge in his eye. He was mocking me! My baseball instincts took over as I swung for the fences. I felt the satisfying whack of solid contact as I drove something deep into left-center field. This had double written all over it! Unfortunately "it" was the desk lamp that was the lone source of illumination for the room. I admired my Ruthian blast until it crashed into the wall. Then the room went dark--really dark. It occurred to me that you could add "superior night vision" to my opponent's list of advantages. Just then I heard a faint noise. It may have been the baby stirring, but I'm convinced that mouse was laughing at me!
Bumbling blindly in the dark, I pulled back the towel, and opened the door. Seizing his chance, the sneaky little rodent made a mad dash for freedom--straight through my legs, and out the door. Three swings and a half-dozen picture frames later, my still unscathed target was trapped between the sliding glass door and the kitchen table. Unfortunately, Momma Bear now stood on the kitchen table; wearing snow boots, hiking up her night gown with one hand, and holding her sleeping cub with the other. What could possibly go wrong? Panting from the exertion, I raised my trusty weapon for one final blow. Then I reached out my left hand and opened the door. In a flash he disappeared into the night.
I shut the door, spun on my heels, shouldered the boat oar, and strolled past Francie; who was still standing on the kitchen table; and still holding the sleeping baby, blissfully unaware of the grave danger he had so narrowly escaped.
"That went well, don't ya think? Goodnight! Careful, don't step on the glass when you come to bed."
"Where are you going?"
"To bed."
"Is he dead?"
"Well not exactly, but he's gone."
"Then go kill it!"
Something about that just felt wrong. The mouse had proven a worthy adversary. We were warriors, bonded by the life or death struggle we had both survived. There was no honor in chasing a noble opponent who had honorably retreated from the field of battle. Besides it was dark, and I was sleepy. I played my trump card; “What would the neighbors think if they saw me wandering the streets in my underwear after midnight, with nothing but a flashlight and a boat oar?"
Even a post-partum Momma Bear would have to agree that I had a point, and soon this victorious warrior was back in bed feeling just a little smug.
But my sleep was filled with restless dreams. Tiny rodents were doing high wire acts on the mini-blinds, and swinging Tarzan style from the cords. “Tink-tink; Tink-tink.” That noise was seeping into my consciousness. Awake now, I laid still in the dark; “Tink-tink; Tink-tink.” Francie reached over and turned on the light. She didn't say a word--her accusatory glare said it all. I looked straight up. Two beady little eyes and a whiskered nose were peering down at me. In the split second before he flung himself over the bed, (and I’m not making this up!), he winked at me; landed on the floor, and sprinted down the hallway. Wearily, I stumbled after him, looking for my boat oar.
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