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Volume CXXXII, Number 11 |
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The valiant hunt for Fieval Knieval
ACADIA SENESE
COLUMNIST
We had uninvited guests at our Thanksgiving dinner. They just showed up, made themselves at home, helped themselves to the food in the kitchen cabinet, and nestled their way right into our living room. I don't mind that we had extra visitors for dinner; it made the conversation lively and added some energy and pizzazz to the day that my aging relatives no longer bring.
Albeit, these visitors weren't of the human kind; in fact, they weren't even primates. They were mice. Lots of cute, little, dark gray field mice. They had big ears, inquiring eyes, and the cutest little noses you ever did see. There was only one problem: they were in the house. And well, mice belong outside the house.
So, my brother and I, in a valiant effort, attempted to capture the mice-alive, mind you-and return them to the wilderness that is our back yard. But herein is another problem: mice are clever creatures; the quickest, smartest little beggars you've ever hunted. My brother and I cornered one little Fieval Mousquawitz in our kitchen, and having emptied the entire pantry of all the food, had little Fieval backed against a corner. My brother-gloves on hands, ready to pounce-and I, with a makeshift shoebox ready to capture-readied ourselves for the moment of truth. We inched our ways forward, stared directly at the mouse (our hearts were pounding with the fear that the mouse might actually leap at us) and attempted to cover him with the shoebox. But when I say mice are the most clever creatures, I'm not lying. This mouse was more like Evil Knieval than Fieval. He twisted and turned and poofed his way out of our trap. We saw our valiant attempt fail as Fieval Knieval scurried his way down to the laundry room.
Now enters my father. He says he's going to do "things right"and capture the mouse. Unlike my brother and I, he was getting the mouse dead or alive. So he locked himself in the laundry room with the mouse, and declared that he wasn't coming out until he got the mouse. Man against mouse, my father went at it in the laundry room. And let me tell you, noise came from that room like you've never heard before. On one hand, driers were banging and washer-machines rattling, and on the other hand a slew of expletives were hurling. And despite it all, out comes the little mouse from underneath the door jam-inching, and I swear, laughing-his way down to our family room.
My father, defeated, embarrassed, and utterly pissed off, has now made it his personal mission to catch Fieval Knieval. With the mouse now secured in our family room, he storms off to the hardware store to get himself "some real mousetraps." I tagged along-mostly because I wanted to make sure he got the 'live catch' mousetraps-and into the hardware store we went. You wouldn't believe the assortment of mousetraps available until you go and buy them. I thought that they just had the little wooden ones, but now they have sticky paper, and what I like to call the "Terminator Traps." These traps are metal, and would probably kill a small dog, let alone a mouse, if triggered. I argued for the "live catch" traps, made by the French (the French don't have the death penalty, why should they kill their mice?), but my Dad was all business and went right for the Traps of Death.
And so, this mouse story comes to an unfortunate end. You see, for all
their quickness, their cleverness, and their cuteness, the mice have a
vice, and it's not cheese, it's peanut butter. And so, Fieval Knieval
didn't go for the turkey on Thanksgiving Day, he went for the Skippy,
and well, "Terminator Traps" don't have much mercy for even
the most talented of mice.
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