Tomorrow is trash day. Trash day and recycling day.
So at 11pm, just as I'm thinking "time to pack it in for the day", Ken says "I'll just take out the trash", and this little voice in my head says "Hey! You've gotta get your money's worth out of that trash can! You're paying for a full can, you should toss out a full can!" so I go running around the house, finding a few more things to toss out, and making sure that the crisper drawers in the fridge actually contain things that are crisp and not mushy.
Just as the fridge door alarm is sounding, Ken calls from the garage.
"Hey, Kem. Come out here for a moment."
Whoopsie. What did I forget to do? Did he find a bill that I absent-mindedly put down on the shelf out there, and is consequently months overdue? Is the door to Homer standing wide open? (wouldn't be the first time).
He just wanted to show me something in the recycling bin.
Oh, Mickey, you're so fine. You're so cute and uniformly grey, and you've got those great big trusting eyes, but I told you NEVER TO CALL ME AT HOME again. Ken asked me what he should do with it, and I suggested that we release him back into the wilds... across the street in the neighbour's hedge.
I was just patting myself on the back for only having two mice in our house in 7 years when I heard a noise.
And this wasn't any wee little cute Mickey-Mouse noise, either.
And that's when I saw it.
A turd the size of Mickey's head.
Now, either Mickey was one constipated field mouse, or we've got trouble.
Right here in River City.
With a capital T, and that rhymes with P and that stands for poop.
And then I heard the noise again.
And then I squealed like a girl, and ran into the house.
Tomorrow morning, I'm putting on the rubber gloves and the steel-toed boots, and I'm cleaning out the corner of the garage. The one that had Rat Noises.
And when you hear the high-pitched shrieking? That'll just be me, screaming like a girl when Rat Boy runs over my foot.