Of mice and meanies

You'll remember there was a brazen mouse strutting about our office a couple or so weeks ago. My reaction to said rampant mouse was apparently hilarious.

My coworkers get a kick out of how quickly I jump — mid-squeal — onto my chair, shaking and wide-eyed, quite near tears. Spiders, stinging insects and snakes get similar reactions.

Anyone who's had a face-to-whisker encounter with a mouse jumping out of a drawer and level with their nose on New Year's Eve when they were 11, though, is not likely to have fond feelings toward mice.

My fame is not for my proofreading abilities, but for my shrieking terror when rodents come tearing through my office.

"Hey, Sarah," one coworker said Saturday. "You know that mouse we had last week? When we caught it, I was going to have it stuffed, and I was going to strategically place it under your desk."

"I'll let you imagine where I would have strategically placed it after that," I said. He laughed, but he sounded kind of nervous.

I was brave enough once, at my parents' house, to pick up a bag that a mouse had conveniently run into.

"Just let it go in the driveway, Sarah," my mom said.

I had visions of it running up my leg as soon as it had been granted freedom. That gave me the heebie-jeebies.

"No," I said, shaking my head and holding the bag as far from my body as physically possible.

"Sarah, just imagine it's Stuart Little. He's not going to hurt you."

(My mom had clearly forgotten my history with mice. She also has no patience for my fear of bees and wasps. Or spiders.)

"Stuart Little has Hantavirus!" I yelled, shaking the bag — and the mouse — for emphasis.

I think I relinquished the bag at the point to my brother, who bashed it against the sidewalk a few times for good measure before "releasing" the offending mouse.

Brothers are good like that.

Mice and I will never come to a truce. Ever.