The dead mouse

As I write this, I am breathing in the scent of dead mouse.

He’s somewhere here in our kitchen, lurking behind a cabinet, his twisted, decaying body looming like old lunch meat. It’s odd, how when mice are alive they smell like nothing at all, and when they’re dead they smell like, literally, death. My wife refuses to enter the kitchen. The neighbor’s daughter (a friend of my kids) is afraid to come to the house. I can’t blame her—nasty. Nasty. Nasty.

We’ve been in this home for more than eight years, and, well, owning a home sucks. There’s always a dead mouse, a broken window, a leaking basement, a rotted piece of wood. When people ask me (which they never do) whether it’s worth buying a place, I always say the same thing: “Uh … no fucking way.”

I mean it. Rent. Borrow. Sleep on a couch. But don’t—do not—own a house.

Mice reek.

1 thought on “The dead mouse”

  1. I’ve caught 4 mice in our basement in the last 3 weeks. The kids don’t know (but they are 5 and almost 2, so they don’t need to, IMO), and I only mention it to my wife in passing. “I’m going to run to the store to get milk, and, oh, I should mention I found another mouse this morning.” She doesn’t know that I found one in the trap having fallen from the crawl space onto the couch (it is leather and I did wipe it some, so I’m not worried about whatever lingering in the couch) and that I found another that had set off the trap, the trap flipped, and got stuck before falling to the couch, so it probably hung itself as much as got clamped by the trap.

    She just knows I caught them and they are no more…and I think she’s happy with that…

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