All in all, a good weekend. A dinner invitation from my son and fiance on Friday to join them at a favourite restaurant; a surprise birthday party for my sister; one brief, unproductive and unattributed bout of retching in the middle of the night on Saturday (my husband swears it wasn’t him and neither Catie nor Riley will own up to it either).
Catie’s appetite is back. All is well.
Last Tuesday was the OMG-the-keys-are-locked-in-the-car-and-I-can’t-get-in-the-house fiasco.
This Tuesday … all in all a good day until I pull into the driveway. The black bags on my neighbours’ curbsides signal that garbage pick-up is tomorrow
I open the garage door, haul out a couple of bags. I notice, as I head to the end of the driveway, that one of them has a couple of holes.
As I deposit it on the ground, two little mice scamper out of the bag. One heads west; the other straight east.
I shriek.
I park the car in the garage, holding my breath (yes, I know all about hantavirus) and run into the house. Catie and Riley think my panic is simply excitement at being home.
Now, I’m very familiar with lot of animated movies of cute little rodents. Stuart Little and The Rescuers, An American Tail and The Great Mouse Detective and the singing mice in Cinderella were all very enchanting. Even Mickey Mouse had a certain charm, if one could get past that annoying voice of his.
But there is nothing agreeable at all about them scampering and scavenging in my garage.
There are three nose prints on the front window this evening. Catie and Riley are on their continued watch for rabbits; I’ve been fixated on the garage door and wondering how I’m going to get my car out in the morning.
My husband has promised to take care of the squatters.