Christmouse Time is Here Again

So there we sat, two "Br"s and two "T"s, watching Arrested Development, when the dog (one of the "T"s) exploded.

This wasn't the "IED dog harness" type of explosion; this was the "Loony Tunes many-feet blur" type of explosion, and since we haven't clipped her toenails in a while, it took her some time to get enough traction on our hardwood floors to go after... Der Maus.

The mouse made it behind the hutch in the dining room just as I finished a spectacular super-sectional leap. I am not bragging. My leap was made even more spectacular in that I went from a supine position on the swivel chair to full ballet extension, paused the DVD, and landed in the entryway in one smooth movement. The smoothness was only slightly ruined by the Snoopy-dance I did on landing, but since it was less violent than the dog's explosion, and it allowed me to slide gracefully across the dining room in a manner envied by Brian Boitano, I will not feign humility.

Of course, with all of this grace and smoothness, the mouse saw us coming and made a break for the illusion of safety that is the Girl's Room. He dove under their dresser, and I snapped on the light, shouting for the "Br"s to bring me "a shoe or something smashy!" (Both arrived in seconds brandishing goofy looks, and not much else.)

As I excavated old socks, graded homework, karaoke CDs (dang, I could have done "The Middle" at Festivus!), flinging them every which way and barking strategic orders at the others, and trying to get the stupid dog to sniff where the mouse was, NOT the end of my finger. Brent stood in the hallway. "Hey, I see him... he's back behind the hutch!"

So we re-mobilized.

The hutch has a back panel that touches the floor, and Der Maus had foolishly pinned himself back there. If I had had an X-wing fighter, I could have flown it into the little Death Star trench formed by hutch and wall, and blown him away. I blocked my end with a spare cardboard box from the recycle pile, and hollered for backup at the other end, thinking to enact the trash compactor scene instead (still on the Star Wars references for those who are lost). But before one of my storm troopers could get there, Der Maus slipped around the end of the hutch, and disappeared under it.

Now armed with the sneakers of a Texan, the two "Br"s and I arrayed ourselves around the three exposed sides of the hutch. We took turns shouting out nose sightings in a bizarre, non-violent version of whack a mole. We were discussing our next move - something to do with the vacuum cleaner - when he bolted.

He was a scruffy little streak of dark brown. A teen aged girl, a dog, and two grown men chased it the 15 feet from the hutch to the stove without disturbing a single hair on his furry little body.

Once under the stove, Der Maus disappeared. We move the stove, and poked into its many dark crevasses, but to no avail.

Saddened, disheartened, and wretched, we left the dog on guard and went back to the important business we were about before our world was turned upside down.

Vengeance for this humiliation will... be... ours.