A Bad Idea Always Bites Twice

Yesterday, at Petsmart, doing Petsmart kinds of activities (wandering off leash, peeing on the floor knowing someone else would clean it up), I had an inspiration that I would very much like to purchase a fancy mouse. The kind that don't look half as fierce or capable of chewing through limbs as the fancy rats, which, despite being fancy and in a cage, would scare Russ out of the house for good. Because the man cannot hang with anything remotely in the shape, color, or style of what he calls "opossum tail." It could have to do with the sheer number of dead ones he has had to pull out from under our home, but then again, it could stem from the time he cornered a live one, spitting possum juice at him, on our porch. Or, simply his hatred of pay phone cords.

I have no idea why this struck me as an inspiration. Something about tiny wheels, maybe. But being a veteran of overdraft notices, I am not as impulsive as I used to be. As in, I no longer decide to spend 75% of my income on spur-of-the-moment purchases, or as Russ calls them, "Huh..." I did impulsively join Stamps.com and have been paying for it - literally - ever since. Every time I call them to cancel, they somehow talk me into using the stamps I already have, which I never, ever do, and which keeps them drawing a cool $15 out of my account every week. Someday, I will finally convince one of my friends to call for me.

So responsible as can be, I asked the teenage salesgirl if it would be kosher (a term I had to explain to her) to hold one of these fluffy white-and-tan mice, even if I didn't plan on purchasing one. You know, to see how we got along.

We didn't.


There was a point when, if you'd looked from a distance, you would see me, shaking my hand as a fancy white-and-tan mouse hung vertically from it, clamped onto my index finger solely with its fancy teeth. It would've been Chaplinesque, except that my gasps were not silent and the blood was quite red. See evidence. I can only hope that the term "fancy" includes "does not carry rabies or plague."

My flailing caused the teenage boy who'd been shadowing me the whole time - and who would not take the hint to get lost - to actually run away. IN FEAR. Really. I cannot describe how fast he took off, not even if I was capable of drawing a diagram with little motion lines and a cloud reading "poof!" Had it happened earlier, that might've been a point of pride, as in, "Yeah, that's right, you better run, emo bangs." But honestly, it was only the threat of tiny mouse teeth that worked to get rid of him.

Clearly, the best reason ever to own mice.