The Dancing Mouse

A while back, there was a mouse living behind my stove. (Now, before we continue with this story, I’d like to point out that my house is not a disease ridden hell hole, exclusively populated by cockroaches, flies, maggots, and Tom Selleck (you were wondering how I was going to bring him into all this, huh?). My house is clean. Well, relatively. Okay, you can see the floor (in patches) and if that’s good enough for me, it’s good enough for you, okay? Good.) What was I talking about? Ah yes. The mouse.
A while back, there was a mouse living behind my stove. (Yes, we’ve been over this terrain before, just thought I’d refresh your memory). But this was no ordinary mouse.

It was a dancing mouse.

Every time I would walk into the kitchen, that damn mouse would leap onto the stovetop. (Some might say this was due to the vibrations caused by my footsteps scaring the mouse out of his hiding place, but I personally subscribe to the theory that the mouse was just a smart-arse who enjoyed hearing me scream). And as soon as he was on the stovetop, he would do the ‘Mouse Mambo’ (similar to the Hampsterdance, but without the catchy hook). The Mouse Mambo would go something like this-

At which point, the mouse would leap behind the stove again.
For days, this went on. I started getting used to it. I would play Ricky Martin music in the background to enhance the whole experience. I even tried learning the moves (but the spontaneous defecation thing proved harder than it looked).
But eventually, I realised. The mouse had to go.  This was when I discovered he was eating my potatoes.
Sure, they were four weeks old, and slightly coated with mould and weevils. But they were my potatoes, dammit! So, with the rage simmering in my brain, I began ‘Operation Kill the Dancing Mouse’ (so called because of my total and utter lack of imagination).
I’d linger in the chemicals aisle of the supermarket. I’d stare at packets of rat poison, piles of mousetraps, and tins of snail bait (which were completely unrelated to my mission but happened to be on the same shelf). And then I’d think of his cute little whiskers. And his widdle tail. And the adorable way he’d leave droppings in my cornflakes. I couldn’t do it.  I couldn’t kill the little dancing vermin. Despite my cold, sarcastic (and enormously attractive) exterior, I was a spineless wimp who couldn’t kill a mouse. Oh, the humiliation!
Until one day, a solution prevented itself. After his usual freestyle section, he didn’t leap back behind the stove. He leaped into the grill. The grill. All I would have to do was turn it on, and I’d be free of the little dancing pest forever.
(Right now, you might be wondering what kind of sick, twisted individual I am. But we don’t have time to answer that question right now. Besides, he was eating my potatoes! My! Potatoes!)
My hand lingered on the switch. Revenge was mine! Then I suddenly took stock of the situation-
Best case scenario- All food cooked on the grill (not to mention the entire kitchen) would smell like char-grilled rodent for months.
Worst case scenario- The mouse catches on fire, leaps out of the grill, streaks through the house like a small… flaming…um, mouse, sets the house on fire with me trapped inside, and I go to an early, fiery death.
Not a good idea.
So, yet again, the mouse survived.
The end of this saga finally came in the form of my flatmates. After enduring this crap for weeks, they issued me an ultimatum- ‘The mouse goes, or we go’.  I thought long and hard. Human companionship… dancing mouse. Human companionship… dancing mouse. But in the end, I went with the species that could loan me money. Which meant the mouse had to go.
Mousetraps were duly bought, set, and placed at regular intervals throughout the kitchen. I was terrified of stumbling into the kitchen one night, searching for a midnight snack, and treading on one, thus setting the rest off a la Loony Tunes.  I could just see myself trudging from the room, a mousetrap attached to every extremity, while a tinny laugh track played in the background.
Then one morning, I walked into the kitchen.
No mouse.
The stovetop was still and silent.
I began checking the mousetraps, one by one. Still, no mouse.
Finally, I found him. His little furry body squashed flat by the merciless wire.

Right next to my potatoes.

Justice had been served.