Punk Mouser – A Tommy Blog

Punk Mouser

“EEEEEK!!!!! Omigod, omigod, OMIGOD!!!”

My dreams are rudely interrupted as Mom bounds into the laundry room, slamming the door behind her.

“There’s a freakin’ mouse in the garage again!”

“Pffft…..I coulda told you that!” Jordan rolls her eyes from her perch on the couch.

Upon hearing the commotion, Dad bounds down the stairs from his office.

“Relax, I put some mouse poison out a few days ago. Damn rodent, I thought he’d be history by now.”

“Well it’s not working, because it’s STILL out there. I don’t want the damn thing crawling up my car vent and DYING again like two winters ago!”

“Just park outside for now until we catch him. Seems our Mighty Mouse has a bit of a free spirit. Too bad we can’t borrow Raven and put her to work.”

RAVEN!!??!! That damn moocher cat that lives up the street! How dare they insinuate that SHE would be a better mousetrapper than me?

I could feel my inner beast of Bodmin Moor stirring in my veins. It was time to prove my worth. I lift my head, sniffing in defiance.

“Why don’t they just let me at ‘em? I can do the job!” I growled.

“Pffftt…. you’re such a scaredy cat. That mouse could eat YOU for lunch,” cracked Jordan.

“I’ll catch that beady eyed varmint and send him packing on Route 66. Or better yet, Route 666 where he has a date with the devil. Ha! I’ll rip his tail off and show him who’s boss!”

“Sure you will, Tommy. You’re scared of your own shadow.”

Oh yeah? We’ll just see about that. I’ve been known to sneak out into the garage. Perhaps if I prove my manliness, I will be rewarded with tuna and catnip! Maybe tomorrow…

The next morning, Dad runs errands and comes home with a bag from the hardware store. Both Jordan and my ears perked up when he started fiddling with something.

“Remember these old things? They haven’t changed in a hundred years.”

“Ah, good old Victor!”

Victor? Who the hell is Victor?

Intrigued by this strange new name, I jump off the couch and wander into the kitchen. On top of the counter sits a jar of peanut butter and some scary looking contraption made of wood and cheap metal.  That’s a strange combination.

“I can’t seem to get the thing latched properly. That’s probably why they’re so cheap. Only a buck!”

“Wait – let’s go watch a Youtube video before you snap your finger off,” suggested Mom. They retreat to her office and huddle by the computer.

Now is my chance! I jump up on the counter and take a closer look, bending my head down and sniffing.

“Peanut butter? What kind of animal would go for peanut butter?”

“Apparently that is gourmet for mice. I’d much prefer a sharp cheddar.”

“Well you do have princess tastes – but I agree with you there.”

“Hey, get down from there.” Mom barks, brushing me off the countertop. I land with a thud on all fours.

Dad carefully pulls back on the metal bar and snaps it in place. “Okay, all set!”

He strategically places it by the ladder in the garage, and then they both leave for the gym.

For some time, I pace around the house restlessly. Then my curiosity gets the best of me. I sneak up to the garage door and perk up my ears.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

“Listen, Jordan! It’s out there. What the hell is he doing?”

“Pffftt…. Probably out there making baby mice!”

“Here, come boost me up so I can open the door.”

She waddles over and I jump on her back, stretching my front paws around the door knob. I give it a quick jerk and it opens.

SCORE! We’re in!

Jordan sits on the garage steps, watching as I follow the scent of peanut butter to the mousetrap. Suddenly a small gray mouse bolts full steam out of the corner towards me.

“Nanny nanny boo boo!” The little punk taunts me as he raises up on his hind legs.  I chase him across the garage, and he ducks into a wooden box.  I peer into a hole, glowering at the scoundrel.

“Punk mouse!  Why I ought to smack you upside the head, you loser! How dare you take up residence in my human’s garage! You’ve got a whole field to call home up on the ridge.”

“It’s the birdseed, stupid! Your parents have the best stash on the block. How can I resist?”

Suddenly, the automated garage door opens wide, its chains grinding overhead like a helicopter. I freeze in fear, the blood pounding in my head.  The punk mouse scurries out of his refuge, running around the floor in circles.

Mom bounds into the garage, catching me in my tracks.

“TOMMY! What the hell …” As she starts scolding, she catches a glimpse of the mouse and shrieks at the top of her lungs.

“AAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGHHHH!!!”

I lunge towards the little punk, sending him shooting out of the garage and up into the fields.

Dad was standing outside, witness to the whole event.

“Well, Tommy… it looks like you saved the day! You are a mouser in a roundabout way. Raven would be proud.”

“Pffft…. More like a PUNK mouser…” Jordan rolls her eyes in disgust.

Mom snatches me up and hugs me tight. “Tommy, you’re my hero! Come on inside. It’s time for a catnip party!”

YESSSSS!!  Catnip!!!!!

As I roll around blissing in the buzz of the catnip, I can’t help but wonder. Could I be a better mouser than Raven? What would it be like to be an outdoor cat? Sinking into a state of relaxation after enjoying a few salmon treats, I realize…. NAHHH, that looks like far too much work. Around here, we don’t really have to lift a finger. We get tuna in a bowl, treats, back scratches, catnip and sleep all day. Yeah, we got it made in the shade!

Until next time, homies…. PEACE OUT and good riddance, punk mouse!

Tommy Breuning © 2017
March 9, 2017 (Give my points to my Mom, Martien!)

Ecrits Blogophilia Week 2.10 Topic: Route 66
Hard (2 pts): Incorporate the “beast of Bodmin Moor” (aka Cat)
Easy (1 pt): Mention “free spirit”