As I sat in my BFF’s backyard under a canopy of rippling Aspen trees, I glugged my coffee mug of wine, savoring some rare serenity.
Abutting my zen space, the squeaking began.
At first, I chalked it up to busy boulevard noises. Soon enough, though, I knew better. I’m all too familiar with the haunting soundtrack of nature’s trash beast. Two incidents came to mind:
No. 1: When I moved out of a house blocks from Mile High in Denver’s Jefferson Park years back, the mice rose up and ran us out. They won. We were tasked with snow shoveling ankle-deep mouse shit out of an unused sunroom.
No. 2: My mind tripped nostalgia, taking me back to when my nympho roommate was forever getting plowed in the room above me, her rusty bed squeaking to the beat of its own second-grader navigating a clarinet reed. She’d turn up her Pantera to level rage to drown out sex sounds. (Didn’t work.)
Squeak. Squeak. Squeeeeeeeak.
What the, Franco!
The overly fluffy cat was pouncing in the garden, batting and slapping at a city rodent. Squeeeeak. The sounds were becoming desperate.
“Just kill the fucking thing, Franco,” I said to my BFF’s husband’s cat, who was in round three of an unfair battle with the limp mouse.
I will not be witness to this. Catholic guilt already surfaced redolent memories of roommate genital smashing, Pantera at squeak-fury levels and the purple-sponged walls of that mouse-ridden sunroom.
I went inside to refill, recharge and regroup while Franco made catnip salad out of his 4-ounce trash filet. I washed my mouth out with whiskey, began to repress the outside activities like a good girl and guided my thoughts toward reminiscing about the song I penned to the beat of my roommate’s headboard slamming against the wall all those years ago.
I went outside 20 minutes later, hoping for an all-clear.
It’s still squeaking. Do I intervene?
I hate mice. They eat their own family. But I also hate cats. (Although the latter may be my oversensitive immune system talking. It gets sick of me powerhosing myself down with Benadryl and holy water.)
But I also hate when living things are in physical pain. I was at odds with what to do, so I productively solved the problem by getting so baked that Franco and the mouse started headbanging to “Fucking Hostile.”
It was a very rousing Saturday night.
Finally, the squeaking stopped. Franco licked stains off his paws and cheeks. He started barreling towards me. He wanted a pat on the back for his accomplishment. I ran inside, screaming, leaving a mewing Franco and a lit cigarette out back with the remains of the mouse carcass.
Then, of course, my dumb feelings got involved, so let Franco inside. I jumped atop the kitchen island, drank more whiskey and YouTubed some Pantera, thinking about how I really need to get laid.