Fievel goes to the Heights

I am a vegetarian who buys leather bags and eats jello. I don’t really care about animals. Like, either way. I am allergic to cats and indifferent to dogs. I am not opposed to a good bug smashing but frown upon animals being put in microwaves.

Its hard enough to deal with humans. Why on earth would I take in an animal that needs me to feed, clothe, bathe, and attend to it? Wouldn’t online dating be more productive and possibly less expensive? I don’t see Buster or Fido picking up the check at any take out establishment, I have never witnessed Fifi or FrooFroo handing out back massages, or fixing things around the house. For me, an animal relationship only has one column in a pro/con list.

Mind you, I have never had a man do any of these things either- but legend has it that they can. That its possible. Physically. They have arms and legs and a nervous system or whatever. And with the exception of the Redwall series, I have never been led to believe an animal to be as productive as a mate. Loyal? Yes. Cuddly? Of course. But I am talking pure productivity. What can you do for me that I cant do for myself?

Sure…there was Daniel Radcliffe and the dear Lorenzo Pisoni in Equus and Samantha Mathis in that movie that was not Black Beauty, but it doesn’t seem practical to keep a horse in my one bedroom apartment. “Candle on the Water” was the best thing to come out of Pete’s Dragon and there is no way Falkor is still alive.

The problem is that as soon as I start coming around to some sort of animal it does something unpredictable and weird. Like try to give me a hickey or eat my toast. The only advantage to having a dog or cat would be to eliminate mice. Because mice are THE WORST animals on the entire planet. I would rather my apartment be infested with Great White Sharks, Rattlesnakes, and Yellowjackets than EVER lay eyes on a mouse again.

Growing up in Florida you have the opportunity to experience a variety of wildlife in your home and yard- lizards, beetles, lady bugs, mosquitos, etc. One does not often have the need to obtain, kill, or harm these animals. A simple afternoon leaving the screen porch door ajar allows them to scurry back to their natural habitat and everyone wins. My issue with rodents is that they have like tiny brains. They know that they are tormenting me and do it any way. It’s a choice.

Flashback to the fall of 2005- I am subletting an apartment on 181 and Cabrini at the tender age of 21 all by my lonesome. My roommate had just booked the Non-Eq Oklahoma tour and I was left to my own devices with the first four seasons of Sex and the City and unlimited Ben and Jerrys options at Jin’s Superette. On my day off I woke up, crawled onto the couch, popped in a disk and was ready to watch my future of whacky Manhattan adventures flash before my eyes. And then. It happened. A mouse darted out from the second bedroom, stopped in front of the television, and stared at me. RIGHT at me. He looked into my eyes. And he saw fear.

I immediately jumped on the couch and began doing cardio step aerobic moves in order to distract both the mouse and myself from the current events. I was SCREAMING at the top of my lungs when another mouse came out to join what he obviously believed was a party. Well this was just too much. I was desperate for my phone. But it was about two feet away on the bookshelf. Two feet that might as well have been an entire ocean. Two feet of wood floor, barefoot, running the risk of a mouse parade traversing over my foot.

I needed to call animal services. Or 911. Or my mom. Really anyone who would listen and get on a plane and carry me off of the couch into safety. In a death defying act of bravery I lept onto the bookshelf, grabbed my cell, and richocheted back onto the couch before the bookshelf even had time to think about plummeting on top of me.

My mom suggested I calm down, call the super, and make sure the apartment was clean of all food and trash and anything a mouse could be attracted to. Looking around, it seemed clean enough…with the exception of an entire bedrooms worth of clothing and bedding shoved haphazardly into that space behind the couch and the wall referred to as “storage”, a half eaten pizza from two days prior, a plate of stale saltines accompanied by an open jar of peanut butter- It was practically spotless.

The un-amused Super brought me seven glue traps, wished me luck, and slammed the door in my forlorn face. All right, its gonna be ok, I thought. I will just put these glue traps on the floor and the mice will find them and die and evaporate and then I will pick up the empty glue traps and move out of this apartment in two weeks and live in a sealed bomb shelter for the rest of my life where no rodents can get in. Problem. Solved.

Alone in my room I begin to hear a noise, like fingernails on a chalkboard, coming from the kitchen and am horrified to turn on the light and discover 5 mice with their torsos stuck on the glue trap, scooting it across the tile floor with their flailing hind legs. With my legs shaking underneath me I head back to bed and try sleep with one eye open as the mice make their final attempts to scoot themselves to freedom.

Traumatized by the evening events I begin packing my belongings to head to a hotel for my last week in the big city. As I hop into the shower I feel something scurry across my foot. Screaming, I jump out of the tub turn the water on as hot as it will go and stand there. Naked. And Cackling. Channeling Diana Morales I peered over the tub at the floating mouse corpse and I felt…nothing.