The Thanksgiving Mouse

Happy to be moved back home for the holidays, my husband and I busily prepare our holiday feast. My work schedule forces us to celebrate a few days late, but we are undeterred. The turkey is on the rotisserie grill. A pumpkin pie bakes in the oven, filling the air with a spicy aroma. We haven’t been in our home for over a year, moving for our careers. Our country home nestles nicely at the edge of a small field, surrounded by stately pines, and is our escape from the world. A deer eagerly munches acorns fallen from the few oaks on the edge of the yard. We are truly happy to be home.

Our Rat Terrier, Opie, watches us prepare the meal, hoping beyond hope that some small morsel will fall to the floor for him. He cocks his head from time to time and grumbles, signifying his frustration with the lack of food on the floor. My husband checks the turkey on the barbecue for the last time. Soon, we will be ready for our feast. I open the drawer underneath the oven and take out a cookie sheet for our dinner rolls, and hand my husband the broiler pan, on which he will place the finished turkey.

I remove the stuffing from the oven and, to Opie’s delight, as I stir it gently in the pan, a small piece falls to the floor. Usually, I would give him a command to stop and not allow him to touch the food. But, I surmise, it’s Thanksgiving, after all, and give him the okay to inhale the delectable bread.

As I am stirring, the oven timer signals that our pie is fully baked. I realize I need one more thing – a rack on which to cool the pie. I open the bottom door of the oven again and start to pull out the large cooling rack.

I scream so loud that I’m sure the neighbors could hear, even though none our visible from our country abode. The cooling rack flies across the room, and so does Opie. He’s quick, as Rat Terriers are. He looks more panicked than I feel.

My husband darts into the room, “Honey, are you okay?” The concern on his face was obious.

“Agggghhh. Aaaagggghhhh. UCK!!” is all I am able to say, pointing to the open oven drawer. Opie returns for an immediate inspection. After surveying the situation he turns to look at my husband with a puzzled expression that seems to say, “so?”

There, underneath all of the baking dishes I had been about to use, was a dead mouse. At some point, the little guy crawled in and obviously cooked himself.

“Bummer,” my husband mumbles, grabbing a paper towel to remove the rodent. “I guess we have to wash all this stuff then, before we use it?” I can only turn away as he puts the mouse in the garbage can.

“Any chance you can take that out right away?” I try to control my stomach. He removes the garbage and Opie stares up at me, triumphantly, as though he just saved me from sure death. I try not to think about it as I clean the dishes and the drawer with Lysol.

“Some mouser you are, Opie!” I tell our dog, who springs up at me as though he found the animal and I am praising him. “You’re fired from mouse hunting, my friend.” And that’s okay with him. He’d much rather just curl up on my lap at the computer than go hunting in the house.

Word Count: 599