When I was coming back from the second best holiday EVER...
~ The BEST holiday EVER was the year I spent Christmas with my less than favorite side of the family. The night before, BFF & I had engaged in our now annual Christmas Eve Sushi Feast and I had gone to the liquor store in order to stock up on Santa's Little Helpers (Jim, Jack and Smirnoff). I was three feet from the liquor store door when I slammed my hand in the car door. (So close, yet so far away. Story of my life!) I got to spend the next four hours in the ER with a fat-assed nurse who could not be bothered to get me some ice and a man who wanted a tetanus shot for a cut he had received three days earlier. The ER doctor was obviously less than please to be working the holidays and dosed me with enough pain killers to keep Rush Limbaugh happy for a few years. What made this the BEST holiday EVER was that I got to spend the entire Christmas Day drooling on myself, demonstrating that hand-eye coordination is not key to demolishing freshly wrapped gifts, and generally getting away with telling the less-than-favorite-family-members what I REALLY thought about them; then getting to blame it all on the drug induced haze. Loved it!!
Anyway, back to the Second Best Holiday Ever. Which was brought about in part by my Dad's superior Apple Martini making skills. After spending a few days with the family and my shaken-not-stirred new friend, I was headed home via the Houston Intercontinental Airport. I had decided to sit apart from the crowd at the gate when I looked down and saw a pair of black eyes and whiskers poking out from under a newspaper. WHAT THE??!?!?!?!!?
It was a little mouse. No shit!! A mouse. In the middle of a major international airport. A small, grey colored, cute as a button, little field mouse. Complete with whiskers and a little tail that were moving like he was in the great quake of 1906. How in the world he got there, I have no idea, but he defiantly took a wrong turn somewhere in the maze. And now this little guy was shaking for dear life under a chair in the Continental gate 23 lounge of Houston Bush International Airport. About the same time that I noticed Mr. Jingles, Bubba the Redneck comes running up to him like he is going to stomp the living daylights out of the poor mouse. I mean, this man was hell bent on doing something to this poor mouse.
Now, anyone will tell you that Ms. Tastrophie is a softy for the furry. Not so much for people. Especially not so much for people who don't have a soft for the furry. And had Bubba gone through with his mouse stomping plans, Ms. Tastrophie would have been spending the end of her Thanksgiving break in a Houston jail cell. (And I do NOT look good in orange!)
Since Bubba was on a mission, I quickly got up and scooped up Mr. Jingles and whisked him over to my seat. After a few minutes of soothing whispers and gentle stroking, I tried to figure out what to do with this newest edition to my travel plans. I think there was a little divine intervention for Mr. Jingles, since I just happen to have a little plastic container to put him in. (Gammie had packed me a lunch for my trip; thus the container.) Although I think the excitement might have been a bit much for the poor fellow. He was scared stiff and looked like he was going to die from fear alone, not Bubba's size 22 boot.
After a few minutes of pleading with the nice man from customer service, Mr. J was on his way to the field outside the airport. At least that is what I made the man swear to me was going to happen. I did not want ~ and do not want~ to know if Mr. J was going to meet any other fate. (I would have brought him home, but Elsa would have made it a very short homecoming for Mr. Jingles and I think he preferred the fields anyway.)
I'd like to think that Mr. Jingles is now off somewhere in the green fields of Houston Intercontinental Airport. Maybe with his own little Cirque du Souris. And if Karma likes to give it out to others, like she has been givin' it to me lately, Bubba is experiencing a few little boot stompings himself.
P.s. for my germaphobic readers: YES, I washed my hands. And used the Purell.
4 comments:
We had a bunny in our postage size yard this past summer. It was a young un, probably about a month old. He was entertaning and my wife wanted to keep him.
BUT
we have a wolf dog that does not like things that run from him, and since the postage size back is HIS domain, eventually bunny would become his dinner.
AND my wife feeds birds all year round which means we have mice and rats in the back during the winter, and well, she recognizes that when the mice and rats are numbering in the dozens, its time to thin the herd, so we have to use poison, and well bunny might become a victim in that.
SO we used our have-a-heart trap and caught bunny and removed him to the large fields/woods east of us. And my wife balled like a baby when she let him go. She still talks about him wondering if he is doing OK.
I tell her I know he is, and that by now he has a GF, and probably a couple of young ones like him.
Larry: "...probably a couple of young ones..." I do believe you may be underestimating things a bit.
I hate mice and the damage they can do. I've dealt with there damage on too many occasions. However, if I had a mouse in hand, I'd never be able to do anything to it other than release it (far from my house). It's something about those big dark eyes and quivering nose that says, "if you kill me, you're going to hell!"
Larry:
Yep, I think Chemgeek is correct on his multiplication. I think Mr. Bunny has a few bunny dependents out in those fields.
Chemgeek: True on the Mouse karma. Something about the cute eyes gets me every time. I once worked in a veterinary pharmaceutical lab that tested on mice. Let's just say my tenure at that job was very short.
You are a brave, brave woman. While I find mice cute (from a great distance) I do not believe I could have stomached picking one up. I probably would have hidden him from Bubba, tho. My giant fucking ass could have handled that job with aplomb. No worries. Pass the Xmas cookies, dear.
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