So it’s 10:30pm and I’m just finishing up in the washroom before curling up with a book and I hear this tiny scuttling.
A mouse scampered out.
Fortunately, the bathroom door was closed and the light in the bathroom is very bright. I seized the handle of the plunger and began chasing the mouse through the bathroom.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Up the vanity.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Around the sink.
THUD! THUD! THUD!
Into the towel hamper beside the sink.
Then I carefully fished the towels out one by one while my wife Belinda Ferguson, awakened from a deep sleep by a mysterious thumping and banging was wondering if her husband was having some sort of a seizure behind the bathroom door.
“DON’T COME IN!” I calmly shouted.
Three face cloths left in the hamper and I began playing a rousing game of three-face-cloth-mousie in the bottom of the hamper as the mouse ran from underneath one face cloth to underneath another face cloth – and Monty Hall was nowhere in sight.
BANG! THUD! BANG!
The last bang ALMOST got him except he bounced out of the hamper, flew through the air and landed in the heap of towels that I had scattered on the floor.
THUD! BANG! THUD!
I calmly and coolly hyperventilated just a little as I gingerly fished each towel up off the floor and shook it a little before dropping it into the hamper.
Finally I nailed the little bastard.
“GOT HIM!” I shouted.
“Are you dead yet?” My wife asked. “Should I dial 911?”
I covered the mouse up with some paper towel and said a few holy words to go along with the unholy words I had been muttering in amongst all of that thumping and banging and then I carried the mouse outside and dropped his carcass at the end of the sidewalk where the crows come to feed every morning.
“Go back to bed,” I told my wife. “The crisis is over. Your man is a mighty hunter.”
Yours in storytelling,