The mice in my closet

I grabbed a bag of white cheddar popcorn off the hutch,  hungry at 11pm and annoyed that I spilled so much from the bag. This is what usually happens when I can't decide if I'm more tired or hungry, so I settled onto the couch with my snack and finished an episode of Arrested Development.

A creature of habit, as most creatures are, I followed the exact same routine the next night, but thought it was odd that I spilled popcorn on the counter again.

Even more curious was the tear in the side of the popcorn bag. I wasn't surprised I was capable of ripping it this way- after all,  I fall up the stairs, spill water that isn't beside me, and trip over the carpet on a daily basis. But this was something else.

A hole chewed through a sandwich bag of cookies was my first realization of the fate I would suffer the next three weeks.

I had a mouse.

It was funny at first. I put all my food in the fridge and called it a day. Out of sight, out of mind. I'd go to my friends' house,  plop on the couch and say, "Guess what. I have a mouse! Lol."

"How's your week going?"

"It's good. I have a mouse."

Then I found a gnawed-to-splinters wooden spoon and droppings in my utensil drawer. And lost it.

Every dish, spoon, knife, pot and pan from my kitchen went into the bathtub and soaked in bleach for the next two days. After the soaking,  I stored them in the oven and freezer- mouse free zones. My kitchen was under quarantine.

The next week was stressful, but okay. Pest control came and the placebo effect kicked in. Until Wednesday night of last week when I was taking a bath

and made eye contact with the mouse.

I set humane traps. The mouse (turns out it was mice, but I didn't know that until later) dodged them, streaked across my floor, under my ottoman, through my bedroom, in my closet. Taunting me. The house was his now. It was everywhere. I was losing my mind.

Seeing mice bothered me more than I thought it would. Nothing felt safe. Nothing felt clean. I was minutes away from dying of dysentery. I escaped to my friends' house on Friday when I couldn't take it anymore.

But seeing mice showed me more than I thought it would.

As a single twenty-something living alone, I've learned to tell people when I need something. It can still feel lonely sometimes. But my friends opened their home to me for the weekend. My neighbor checked the traps while I was gone and cleaned the mouse blood when we caught it. A friend came over and helped me wash my laundry, disinfect the house, and dispose of more dead mice. A random guy in the checkout line offered to catch it for me with his bare hands. My landlord brought his handyman to seal every hole and arm every corner. I felt cared for and very much not alone.

The mice were entering through my closet. They were surrounding me. But so were my friends. And as awful as it feels to make eye contact with a mouse while in the bathtub, I don’t think I would change that it happened. Because it felt good this month to be covered by my friends.

But also to be rid of the mice