“Love, what are we going to do? The fire destroyed all the food we had.”
Minnie was battling to hold down the tears sparkling in her eyes. A fragile, concerned mother trying her best to console her youngest, Mickey Jr, who’s been up all night with colic, implying constant crying, which is something you don’t wish on your worst enemy.
“Minnie, I’ve told you I’ll make a plan. I have found a house, there is plenty of food, standing in a bowl on the floor. It’s easy pickings. I think it belongs to their version of Pluto. I’m going back there again tonight.”
“Are you sure it’s safe? I won’t make it if something happens to you. Besides I’m definitely not going to raise all three of your kids on my own.”
“It’s safe, stop worrying. The inhabitants of the house are oblivious to my nightly scavenging. Just trust me.” He was trying his best to hide the anxiety in his voice.
“Mom”, yelled Walt from the pantry, “there’s nothing in here! What am I suppose to offer my friends? We’re starving!”
“Walt, I told you there’s nothing. We’re working on it,” said Minnie in a broken voice.
“Listen buster,” Mickey obvisouly had enough, “there’s nothing because of a little incident called a VELD FIRE! One which you and your idiot friends started with that little “experiment” in weed smoking. So don’t get me started on your ass. Besides aren’t you still grounded?”
“Chill Dad. I’m just saying that…”
“What did you say?” Mickey’s big ears were turning a crimson red. “Listen to me carefully, I’m not one of your doped up friends. Don’t tell me to chill out. I swear if I didn’t know better I’d swear you are stu…”
Minnie touched his arm gently and the warmness of her hand drained all the words from his mouth.
“My love, leave him. We’re all very stressed. It’s certainly not going to help anyone if we start to attack one another. You’re worked up and I really don’t want you to say something you’ll regret later. Just leave it.”
“You’re right, my love. As always. I’m sorry. It’s just sometimes I don’t know where he gets his attitude from.”
Minnie smiles. “He gets it from a thing they call hormones, my love.”
He turned towards her and awkwardly managed a big hug with Junior having stopped crying for a second. He felt an ache in his heart, realising how much he loved this woman who was sharing his life.
“Everything is going to be fine, trust me. I’ll have something on the table before we go to bed. I just need to wait for eight’0 clock.”
“What is this about eight’ clock, Daddy?” It was Macy, inquisitive as always, walking slowly with crutches and one arm in a sling. It broke his heart to see his little darling girl in such a state. If it wasn’t for Walt, then his sister would have succumbed to the smoke. They were lucky and blessed. Her scorched flesh a painful reminder of how close they were in losing her. Mickey shudders.
“Nothing my doll-face. Don’t you worry your little heart.” He walked across the room and scooped her up high, letting the small matchstick crutches clatter to the floor. He held her tightly for a minute or two.
It was then that the little Donald-face clock announced that it was time to go. And it reminded them eight times of that fact.
Mickey kissed Minnie and his three kids, slung the bag over his shoulder and left for OUR house. Which is how goody-two-shoes Mickey Mouse became a food thief. Driven by a desperate situation and a love for his family that turns into a twisted sense of responsibility. Little did he know that finding an easy source of food would probably end up killing him.
At first we didn’t notice his nightly visits, for it happened when we were asleep. And then one day I saw him. I shivered and felt a slight moment of fleeting panic, because I don’t really care much for Mickey and his type. I did the obvious thing, which is nothing. Just ignored our little guest, besides Game of Thrones was on.
A few nights later the wife saw him. And she really, really, really despise their guts. She actually uses the V-word when referencing them. You know, V-E-R-M-I-N. So seeing Mickey strolling around the house like he owned it, didn’t make her happy at all. The first time she spotted his arrogance was whilst watching television by herself. Barely able to stuffle a shriek, there was nothing much she could (or wanted) to do. Except threatening leaving the house if I don’t get rid of it. Note she doesn’t say killing it, she says getting rid of it, implying a totally different approach.
I started to realise that Mickey’s nightly escapades occurred at a very specific time. Mickey came around at eight, cleverly avoiding the strategically placed poisonous blocks I left in his path. Upon closer inspection of his nightly activity, I realised he’s actually a bastard. Not just taking food to Minnie and their three kids, Walt, Macy and Mickey Jr, as I expected, but instead moving into his own bachelor’s pad in the cupboard under the sink. A place of solitude where he can escape the pressures of parenthood and a nagging wife, just doing nothing but eat, drink, sleep and poop, without bothering to clean up the mess he made. Most probably reminiscing about his care free days running in the fields with Pluto.
But last night the whole family saw him. Chaos ensued. Chaos, the likes last seen during the bombing of Berlin in the second world war. There was screams and screams and more screams. Dad was called to action, because no-one else wanted too. Dad being a guy who doesn’t really like mice, except if they’re dead. The question racing in his mind: How does one catch a mouse without killing it?
I chased him from the doggy door, across the passage, into the dining room, where he ran for his life along the skirting boards through the kitchen, hiding behind the fridge. I could hear him panting, battling to find his breath. He was cornered, by a human male in a robe with a bucket and broom and three other humans, standing on the perimeter, shouting useless instructions which didn’t add any value to the situation.
Mickey made a dash, rather unexpectedly, resulting in Dad executing a version of breakdance, never seen before. The rest of the family almost died and I managed to stop them going all the way up the stairs. Everyone was laughing hysterically from sheer panic. During his death-defying run, Mickey battled to gain some traction on the cold, tile floor, but eventually managed an escape. Long story, short…We don’t know where he is now.
I’ve searched his pad and found nothing. He’s probably hiding in some secret trap door, shaking and shivering, barely making it to safety. I’m convinced I found a dropping or two behind the fridge as he soiled his little underpants after our altercation. Mine was fine.
Unfortunately he became overconfident. He’s strolls became too much of a routine, something he didn’t think about. And so he became careless and lowered his guard. Point is, he has been discovered. And now he’s going to pay for that unfortunate discovery with his life.
There will be mouse traps. There will be bait. There will be poison. And in the end there will be blood. My condolences to Minnie and the kids, but war is war and a mouse in MY house is not even an option.