|One of these mice is a total jerk. Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash|
As the elevator door opened, the man was waiting for us. Lin attacked first, a flurry of well-aimed kicks and punches, but the man was faster. And he had a gun.
The shot rang out, and she slumped to the ground. I paused for only a second, then leapt over her to take my turn. He caught my ankle on the second kick, but I had a crowbar at the ready. Done. Shaken, I stumbled over his body and made my way to the sofa, on which I sank, trembling. The elevator was still open, Lin’s motionless back to me, her dark hair spilled out in a pool onto the tile. My assailant wasn’t moving either, but I wasn’t going to trust that he was dead; not yet.
A sudden movement outside the window revealed that help had arrived; a uniformed person on a rope ladder swung from a ladder and slid open the balcony door, and I–
It sounds like chewing.
It’s not chewing. Go back to sleep. Get back to that cool dream.
No, it’s chewing, definitely.
But we fought so hard! We were about to be rescued!
In the darkness, Chris’s head pops up, too.
A few weeks ago, I walked into the kitchen just in time to see a mouse drop from my windowsill and scurry behind my fridge. My first-floor windowsill. In the UK, the first floor is the one above the ground floor, the one that I have to walk up two flights to get to. This mouse had scaled the outside wall, and jumped into my kitchen.
He was obviously a ninja.
We pulled out the giant fridge and freezer and watched him escape into a little hole in the wall. No matter that it was past 11pm on a Saturday night, I swept out the dustmice (ha ha) before pushing the appliances back into their space. We left for a little trip the next morning.
After a week away, we discovered that another ninja (perhaps a team of ninjas (Ed. note: or a team of ninja, should you prefer to eschew the whole sheep/sheeps route)) had somehow opened a giant cabinet in our mudroom and gotten into the dog food. It was a mess of kibble and mouse poop.
The dog food is now suspended three feet off the ground, in the same cabinet, not touching the sides. It would take a tribe of circus ninja mice stacked one on top of the other to reach it. Ha! I swept, mopped, and was rid of them.
Right. So, there we were, at 5:04 am. Chris’s head popped up off his pillow. “Mice!” he hissed.
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A few weeks ago, I walked into the kitchen just in time to see a mouse drop from my windowsill and scurry behind my fridge. My first-floor windowsill. In the UK, the first floor is the one above the ground floor, the one that I have to walk up two flights to get to.