Automotive Mice

I would not make a good Buddhist. Those who know me might argue with me. After all, I’m the guy who clips the barbs off of my kids’ fishing lures. I’m the guy who used to capture spiders and relocate them outside so that they could live on in the beautiful out-of-doors (I don’t do it anymore because I found out that indoor spider species die an ugly death when transplanted outside).

Since moving to the Canyon, any chance of Buddhism is out the window. Although I’ve apologized to all the rattlesnakes I’ve beheaded, I have nonetheless beheaded them. I have a strict no-rattlesnakes-in-my-yard policy. It’s not that I’m worried about stepping on one. They’re pretty good about letting you know they’re there. I’m more worried about one of the kids’ friends getting bitten because they thought it would be cool to paint legs on it. A few snake-homicides (and obligatory apologies) are a pretty good trade-off for not having the local personal injury lawyer’s son get bitten by the same snake that we named Pooky and included on the family Christmas card.

I do kill other stuff, and sometimes I’m totally okay with it. Mosquitoes are high on the list and are closely followed by black flies, sweatbees, gnats, and anything else that may land on my eyeball or explore my nostril. Bigger creatures are not totally exempt either. A while back, I pulled a full-size mouse nest out of the air cleaner on my Subaru. The little buggers had chewed tunnels through the hood lining and gnawed through the insulation on bundles of wires. Now, keep in mind, I have two hard rules about my cars; 1. Any part of my car that you eat, you must replace and/or repair (there are no exceptions), and 2. No urination or defecation in or on the car without my permission (there may be exceptions to this rule, but no one has challenged me on it yet). The mice have no gainful employment and broke both rules. They are not going to get the live trap.

So, today I pulled into the Toyota dealership parking lot which triggered the sirens in the staff room, where the salesmen look out the window and try to assess how much money I can be convinced to hand over. A guy named Chuck won the toss and started hoofing over about the time I spotted the truck that I wanted to see the sticker on. I jumped out of the Subaru and left it running so that I could make a get away before he got me in a sleeper hold. As I was scanning the sticker, my car made a noise I have never heard it make before. It sounded like the fan sputtered or stalled, then the engine went back to normal. I was looking at the front of my car expecting it to say, “I’m good, I just had a tickle in my throat,” when a fatally injured mouse fell from behind the grill. I confirmed he was an ex-mouse, hopped back in the car and got it moving just as Chuck’s nametag came into view as he slalomed between pre-owned V-8 Tundras (zero down!) in an attempt to cut off my escape route. The only two things that looked out of place as I looked at the pristine parking lot in the rear view mirror, were a little furry lump and a sweaty, confused, man in Italian loafers. The next time I stop by the lot, I’ll have to ask for Chuck. He deserves closure.