My house has a mouse. His diet consists only of rat food and sometimes Vegetable scraps, like what you would throw into a pot to make homemade broth. His Good Christian Name is Mr. Mouse and he hails from the petco by Harris-Millis, a spawning point from which only the Most Highly Regarded Creatures hail. He
lives out his days in a cage and doesn’t often roam freely. He would have no idea what to do with his tiny body, I imagine.
What I said earlier about my house having a mouse, well you see Dear Reader that was only partially true. We really have two. One, as I stated, adopted from the petco. But the other? I’ve never witnessed him with my own eyes. He’s not a ghost though, he’s just incredibly sly. He shits in our cabinet after consuming an abhorrent amount of Her- shey’s kisses and then sulks back to God Knows Where, leaving tiny little mouse shits and bits of aluminum foil in his wake. I’d like to imagine that after a feast, he spends at least a few hours laying on his back, stomach facing the sky, stuffed to the brim with our very own delicacies.
Upon first glance, my fat-ass city mouse is no match for a mouse who not only forages for his own food, but also appears to be on a strictly nocturnal schedule. I imagine a creature as small as Country Mouse needs to keep a proper schedule for maximum brain output. Oh, to be as small as one of those foam fetuses used by pro-life protestors and my teachers at Catholic school! What inner monologue he must have as he traverses through the cabinetwork and walls which surround me!
But how does Mr. Mouse’s inner monologue sound, though? Has it been shaped by
the ways my roommates and I speak to him? Primarily, I’m concerned about the fact
that we spend 23 hours of any given day calling him a big fat fatty lardo mouse. Good thing he’ll never have to commune with any members of the mouse community, city slickers or other wise. I don’t think his massive Ego could take the hit.
Categories: around town, katie rearden, November 3, 2020