A Mouse In My Pocket

In order to convey the feeling of loneliness in his novel: Of Mice and Men, John Steinbeck has one of his characters, Lennie, walking around with a pet field mouse in his pocket. Apparently Lennie and his mouse are pretty good friends.

Now, I don't mean to put John Steinbeck down. He was a great novelist. It's just that I have a little different take on the idea of having a mouse in your pocket. Let me explain.

Because our ranch backs up to the forest we have the occasional mouse or two or ten scampering around our barn. We, of course, take the necessary precautions to be sure their numbers don't exceed the number of stars in the universe, however it is an on-going challenge.

A few weeks ago we had an unexpected break in the cold weather, so on that day the jacket I wore out to the barn to feed the livestock was quickly discarded. I don't like wearing jackets anyway because they hinder my movement, so I was delighted to be able to take it off and toss it haphazardly on a bale of hay.

Unfortunately in about an hour or so the clouds rolled back in and the wind picked up, so I reluctantly slipped the jacket back on. It was amazing how quickly the weather turned from warm and sunny to cold and windy. The sudden change made my nose runny so I reached into my pocket to retrieve a Kleenex. It took me a few seconds to realize that Kleenex are not supposed to feel warm and fuzzy. Nor are they supposed to scamper about in your pocket when touched. Sure Kleenex have improved remarkably over the years, but not that much. My keen sense of perception told me there was something not quite right about that Kleenex. A quick peek into the pocket reveled two bulging eyes of a wild field mouse staring back at me.

Shrieking and squealing louder than a frightened piglet, I jerked my hand out of my pocket. I think that normally would have been a good maneuver but the mouse, no doubt fearful of going deaf from my screams, jumped from pocket onto my hand and then ran up the under sleeve of my jacket.

That caused me to do what any woman would do. I started jumping up and down, spinning in circles and screaming even louder. Somewhere in there, a tweak of sanity took over and I realized I needed to get my jacket off in order to free myself and the mouse from our mutual horror. Unfortunately, the jacket zipper had other ideas. It was stuck. I'm telling you... Never trust a zipper to work when you need it the most. They are totally unreliable in emergencies! I think the FDA should put warning labels on them. I can only imagine the horrors that plague men.

I tugged, I screamed, I pulled, I screamed, I jumped up and down, I screamed, I stomped my feet, and I screamed...nothing would work. Finally I tried pulling the jacket up over my head. That not only failed but it gave the mouse the opportunity to slip down the collar of my sweatshirt and lodge itself on my left shoulder. Since the mouse now had access to my bare shoulder under the sweatshirt, I feared it would bite me, which only increased my angst.

I tugged violently at the collars of both my jacket and sweatshirt hoping the mouse would see the light of day though the tiny opening and flee. It didn't. It crawled in deeper . Suddenly I felt it trying to slide down by back, so I began to jump up and down faster as I fanned the bottom of my clothing. At that point, I began to feel oxygen deprived from all the screaming and squealing. I was also feeling a bit queasy and dizzy from all the jumping and spinning in circles. The Whirling Dervish would have been very proud of my performance!

Finally exhausted, I began to lose balance and on one of my rotations I collided with a bale of hay, bounced off it and fell down. Defeated by a tiny mouse in my pocket, I lay completely still and exhausted for a few seconds watching the barn continue to spin around me. I tried to come up with a plan to rid myself of the mouse, but all that came to mind was crying. Well, in all honesty, there was a brief moment when I considered shooting the mouse, but since it was clinging spread-eagle to my shoulder, I knew the outcome wouldn't have been pretty. I envisioned the local newspaper headlines reading "Crazed woman shoots self in shoulder while trying to escape mouse attack" Yeah, that would nave been real good.

It's rare, but I suppose there are times when there is logic in surrendering. In this case, apparently the mouse was relieved that I had stopped my frantic thrashing because with the speed of a flash of lightening, it ran down my limp arm and exited though the cuff on clothing. I continued to lay motionless as I watched it stagger dizzily across the barn floor and vanish under a stall door.

I have to tell you, the whole episode frightened me half out of my mind, but.. in all fairness, I'm not completely without sympathy for the mouse. That poor little thing must have had one insane ride. The image of a bull rider clinging to the back of a crazed bull as it spins and bucks comes to mind.

Nothing personal John Steinbeck, but one day I may rewrite your novel and call it: Of Mice and Hysterical Women.