If only I'd...
There was a mouse in the office today. A very fast artful dodger of a mouse, dashing from "place-where-I-put-my-feet-under-the-desk" to "place-where-I-laid-my-jacket-on-the-floor" to "place-where-I-was-going-to-step" in alarmingly decisive fashion.
I have always repudiated the cartoon image of the woman on the chair screaming "eek." Today, with nary a thought of feminist theory, women in the workplace controversies, or having to be twice as good as a man, I climbed up and stood on a chair. It was the only sensical thing to do. I didn't shriek, nor did I panic, but the mouse obviously wanted the floor, and I gave it to him.
The thing is, meece are fast, boys and girls. They can be up your pants leg in the time it takes you to peek around the corner and say, "here, mousey." They're not cowering behind a box -- they're catching their breath for their next sprint of terror across your shoes.
I might have tried to coexist with Furhead, but he insisted on leaving his calling cards - small, oblong, and black - all over areas where I need to put things, like my afternoon snacky cake. So my coworker laid a glue strip down, and an hour later, mouse ran free no more.
He's probably in the trash bin now, quietly contemplating in his final moments. Oh, the things he would do differently, had he the chance.
For one thing, he would spend less time at the office.