How to gas your wife and miss the mouse...

My wife and I were on our annual excursion to the local nursery. The plan was to buy some flowers and shrubbery to spruce up the exterior of our house. This was going to be on long hot day in the garden.
I was in the row of garden supplies when I spotted them. They looked like little tiny sticks of dynamite. They looked like the little tiny sticks of dynamite I saw on cartoons as a child. I don’t even remember picking up the package.
‘What do you need that for?’ my wife asked.
Normally, I had a story already concocted. Normally, before I went and purchased something, I created a plausible story in my mind because my wife always asked me what I was going to with that item and did we really need to spend the money. Hey, I wouldn’t have even picked up the thing if we didn’t need it – come on!
‘Well, we live near the park and we might have wild animals invading our house.’
‘How are little sticks of dynamite going to help you?’
‘These are animal control devices.’
Ok, she rolled her eyes and wasn’t really buying the story but to humor me she let me buy the dynamite. A point she might live to regret.
It was a couple of weeks later when we were cleaning out the garage; I got to use the sticks. This was still the first year of our house. We had it built to my wife’s specifications and the landscaping was not completed. Thereby a lot of the stairs and the back porch had exposed areas animals could treat as their own little homes. So, the front area of home had a section of dirt that left the front stairs exposed. When I looked in there later (after the smoked cleared) it looked mouse city. Warm, protected and comfortable from the elements. This was perfect home for little mice.
When we had moved, we had left some furniture out in the garage. We hadn’t decided what to do with the furniture. Put in the basement? Give it away? Sell it?
Finally, the chief made the decision to put the furniture in the basement and we were in our garage cleaning up and moving the furniture down into the basement.
As we moved the autumn, a mouse jumped out and ran across the floor. My wife screamed! ‘Eeek, eeek, eeek!’
The mouse, more terrified of us, then us of the mouse, jumped off the autumn, and ran for it’s little life to the side of the garage. The mouse ran up the side of the wall and popped into a hole. There was just enough room between the cracks to allow a mouse from under our front stairs and into the garage. The mouse or mice had chewed through the tarpaper and entered mouse paradise – our garage.
We had not purchased a garbage container – yet. Just never got around to it. Therefore all the garbage from the house was just stored in the garage on the floor. I believe that this combined with the furniture made mouse heaven. A constant supply of food and high quality furniture to chew up was irresistible. Upon reflection, mice are mice, they can’t help who they are but as my wife points out – I can.
Me, go into man mode. Me, save mate. Me, grab broom and tell mate to chase mouse back into hole. Me grab dynamite and run around to the front of the house.
‘Eeek, eek, eek’ my mate was screaming again.
Me run back to the garage. Mate explains that as she was holding the broom and looking the hole. As she was looking at the hole the mouse popped into, the mouse popped his nose out to see what was going on. This caused my wife to scream because as you know the mouse could take my wife.
The mouse popped back into his hole. My mate was babbling incoherently now. Or it could be she was very coherent but I was going to save her anyways.
I ran back to the front of the house carrying a shovel, matches and dynamite. The recipe for good mouse cleaning. I start digging and I can still hear my wife yelling at me from the garage about something but I can’t tell what. Just let me finish the damn hole.
Finally the hole is large enough, and I try to light the first stick. Oh, I am figuring based on the size of the steps in the front I need two sticks. Now how on God’s green Earth did I figure two sticks? Well, at that point, I wanted to make sure they were dead and two sticks of dynamite are always, always, better than one stick of dynamite – always.
The first one was lit and down the hole. I was quicker lighting the second one and this one went down the hole. I threw dirt over the hole and like Wyde E. Coyote; I was waiting for the subsequent explosion. Hmmm, there was no smoke coming from the ground, where was the smoke going? Where was the smoke going?
Well if the smoke had to go somewhere? If it wasn’t coming from the ground where was the smoke going? I heard a coughing sound. Not a mouse coughing noise but a flow blown human coughing noise. It dawned on me, the smoke was coming out of the crack.
I ran back into the garage. A huge cloud of smoke was billowing out of the crack. I couldn’t even see my wife. Before I could rush in and save her from my stupidity, she rose from the smoke. I am not sure if her eyes were red from anger or from the smoke. I started to plan that trip to the Mexican hacienda.
‘Didn’t you hear me screaming at you? Didn’t you wonder where the smoke was going? Didn’t you wonder what would happen to the mice? Didn’t you think there would be a smell after you killed them? Didn’t you wonder why I was yelling at you? Did you wonder why I started screaming? Didn’t you think you might gas me?’
The short answer is no of course. I wasn’t thinking of gassing my wife and I am sure the jury would have believed me. I wasn’t thinking of the mice bodies. I am sure the Animal Protection Agencies would have believed me. I thought she was screaming at me to go faster. It was like my brain shut down.
In the end, I didn’t find the mouse or mice as the case might be. My wife called an exterminator. The man arrived while I was at work and plugged the hole in the garage. I was banned from using dynamite every again.

How to gas your wife and miss the mouse...


Edmonton, Canada

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