Back when I lived with my parents, I'd occasionally have roommates: mice. As such, I have a fair share of mice-related memories. They've never grossed me out like bugs (especially roaches), but dealing with them was always emotionally problematic. I probably have some mild form of PTSD from the mice I've had to deal with. Do you like that euphemism, "deal with?" I don't know where that's coming from. Probably from all those mice I've had to kill.
Your dad beat a mouse to death with a broom-handle the night before we went on that road trip.
ReplyDeleteNo--I'm almost positive that's one of your weird composited memories/exaggerations. The real stories are: 1) We had a sleepover at my house once and there was a mouse in my room. Shrieking like girls, we managed to corner it, and I tried to smash it with a broom handle, but of course missed. And 2) a memory I don't want to go into that me and a mouse, but not my dad.
ReplyDeleteOops--I meant to say "that involves me and a mouse, but not my dad."
ReplyDeleteI remember dealing with those mice too. For awhile there was a steady stream of them, until they found the hole behind the stove and plugged it up. I remember actually doing little mouse mercy-killings. It was like Reservoir Mice every night.
ReplyDeleteBobby