Wednesday, April 28, 2004

There's A Mouse Down...

Last night, as I was peacefully blog-surfing, Wendy & Jordan came crashing up the stairs to the third floor of our house, which is the master bedroom, all hyper-ventilating and wierded-out.

"We're down a mouse!!" gasps Wendy, looking shaken, while Jordan leaps onto our bed and goes almost fetal.

"What, one of the mice has gone missing?" I ask. (Jordan has had a gaggle of mice in her room for her & Keniesha's science fair project for over a month - interesting smells have resulted.)

As they both continue to talk over each other, I realize that Wendy has done what she normally does when she's (A) really tired, or (B) hyper over something: her Germanic grammar takes over, and she switches her word order. "I mean, a mouse is down - I think it's dead!" Wendy says.

"And I think the other one is half-eaten!" Wails Jordan from the safety of our bed, clutching a pillow.

I go down to Jordan's room, and discover (A) yes, one of the mice is dead, so I "bury it at sea" via our sanitation device (toilet), and (B) that the pile of hard-to-identify whatever in the other corner of the terrarium is, indeed, the half-eaten remains of one of the other mice. It, too, is sent to Davy Jones' Locker.

The remaining (live) mouse is dashing furiously around the terrarium, spinning on the rodent wheel, and looking decidedly feral. I decide to re-name him Hannibal. After cleaning the areas where the recently deceased were discovered, things seem to return to normal (as our family defines "normal").

Shortly afterwards, as I am watching X-Men 2 on the tube, Jordan comes downstairs, still looking somewhat traumatized, crawls into my lap and curls up with her head on my shoulder. "Daddy, can I just sit here with you for a bit?" she asks.

"No problem," I reply, kissing her on the forehead. Any time my 15-year-old daughter wants to sit with her daddy to comfort her is absolutely fine by me.

I might even forgive Hannibal.

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