Jason calls as usual, around 11ish to talk about the day and say goodnight, and I distractly turn on the light, while I chat and walk into the room. I reach over to turn on the night stand lamp and I see a little, furry, brownish mouse laying on its side. Thank God, its eyes are closed, or at least that’s what I think. I don’t look long enough at it to be sure. I scream, screech, jump on the bed and tell Jason I need to call him later, someone needs to come get this thing. I for sure am not touching it.
I desperately call the doorman and ask for the onduty handy man. My heart is racing, seriously, I don’t remember the last time I was this nervous and disgusted by something like this, out of the blue. I open my door and stand there waiting, in front of the service elevator, for the guy who would save me from this beast, to show up. He finally appears with a broom and a dust bin. I indicate where he can find the cadaver and he sweeps it up. I, standing outside, not really wanting to watch any more of this. He, very cavalier, apparently it’s not a big deal.
I am beside myself and ask if he has swept others before this one. “Are there any others?” This is my main worry now. Not to mention the whys. Why would a mouse decide to come here to die? What appeal really can my bedroom floor have? This is why people have cats, I’m sure. I want to move.
And then Jason, because apparently it’s funny, sends me a picture of a mouse and posts it to my FB wall. While he laughs he’s head off, I’m pissed. It’s so not funny! I now have to go back into that room and sleep on that bed, right next to the spot where the dead mouse was. Not funny, not funny at all. I can only imagine the nightmares I will have tonight. “Cute, he was very cute.” That’s what I keep telling myself.