Yeah, Like Nothing Scares You?

I’ve known since I was about eight years old. I didn’t need a psychiatrist to give me a diagnosis. Obviously, I didn’t know the correct name for it then, but I do now. I am 100%, without a doubt, Musophobic (also called Suriphobia or Murophobia) and it’s very serious to me. I am afraid of mice and rats. Not to be overlooked, I am also afraid of gophers, guinea pigs, ferrets, hamsters, squirrels and rabbits…and whatever small animal that remotely resembles any of the above. I can’t even look at a picture of most of the smallest of God’s creatures. I’m not even sure why they are on this earth other than to terrify me.

When I try to figure out how I was conditioned to be such a freak about this, I can only come up with a time when we were kids and we had a very rainy winter. Suddenly there were mice everywhere in the house. They were seeking refuge in the kitchen, garage, closets, and nestled in between towels. We watched in terror as one ran up a curtain and disappeared. Some trampy mouse had given birth in the toe of my sister’s boots. If we weren’t actually witnessing them making themselves at home, we were constantly reminded of their presence by the droppings that they left in dark corners and in plain sight, or by a box of cereal that had a hole chewed out of the corner. I’ll spare the details, mainly because it’s too difficult for me to think too much about, but the mice were everywhere.

I remember a particularly terrifying morning, waking early to the sound of my two oldest sisters yelling for help. I think I heard one of them throw something at their bedroom door while the other yelled out their window, although I’m not sure who she thought would be in the yard that early in the morning. There was a mouse in their room, partially in a trap if I remember correctly, and struggling to get free. And all I wanted to do was get the hell out of there.

When my daughter was about 9, she begged for her very own cat. We finally gave in on the condition that Oliver be an outdoor cat. By the way: Oliver was female and given a masculine name because I know nothing about feline anatomy. We realized the mistake some time later when we thought we were over- feeding our poor boy Oliver…and then he was a she, and she was giving birth on the pool table in the garage. Anyway, soon after Oliver arrived, I was up late one night and heard a familiar sound from my childhood: a scratching sound in the linen closet.

Sweet Mother of God, I knew that sound. After some trepidation and probably a shot of liquid courage, I investigated further, checking every possible hiding place. Mouse poop on the shoulder of my coat (I immediately threw the coat out) in the hall closet confirmed my greatest fear. It was then decided that Oliver would of course be welcome to live in the house with us until the mouse was hunted down and murdered…and then Oliver could get the hell back outside.

My plan was in place. Bedtime came and the pocket door to the hallway was closed; Trina’s bedroom door was left open so Oliver could wander during the night, officially on duty. Now with all the plans laid out and having night security, a normal person would feel reassured and just go to bed, right? Not me. I sat up all night in a recliner with my feet pulled up off the floor in the event that the mouse would come and attack my toes. The TV was on low so I could hear even the slightest squeak or scratch. It sounds crazy, but I was right: at about 2AM, I heard the scratching coming from the hallway that Oliver was being employed to guard. What the hell?

I sat frozen listening…and heard not a single curious cat sound-only the familiar scratching. I opened the pocket door to investigate and no Oliver. I carefully and quietly made my way past the linen closet and bathroom and into Trina’s room. There I found my sweet daughter sleeping soundly in her bed with the blankets pulled up to her chin. And right next to her? Oliver, tucked in under the blankets with her head on the pillow, sound asleep. Useless Oliver was immediately fired and returned to status of outdoor cat.

Some years and another home later, we no longer had Oliver and I had no desire to have another cat; I was adamant about it, similar to how some women are adamant about not having any more children. It’s not that I completely loathe cats or am afraid of them, but they can be just a little too selfish and into themselves for me, and something about that reminds me of someone I once knew. Anyway…Nothing would have changed my mind about a new cat, except my fear of mice. And that’s how Wesley, this time a confirmed male cat, came to join our family.

On the day after Thanksgiving in 2005, I decided to spend my afternoon getting an early start on Christmas decorating. But pulling all of my storage boxes out of the garage was a huge feat and I was tired, so I left them stacked in the front hall; I decided that I’d get up early on Saturday and finish the job. There I was: a nice quiet morning with the kids all asleep, laundry started, coffee made, and thinking how great it was to be so on top of things. And then it was ruined. As I emptied the boxes and stacked them inside each other to put back in the garage, I saw it: a small, gray mouse—dead on the floor by the front door where the boxes had been. I must have passed it dozens of times but I never noticed it.

But Holy Mother of Jesus, I noticed it then-and, I absolutely panicked. I ran into the living room and jumped up on the couch. Standing there, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I thought how odd that all the color has drained from my face. I looked absolutely panic stricken. Yes, I know it was dead, but a dead mouse is still a mouse. For me, it’s the worst feeling in the world: heart racing, shaking, crying, trying to yell or say something, and nothing comes out. I forced myself to be brave and quietly made my way over to peek down the hall: yep, still dead. The thought had actually crossed my mind that it was pretending to be dead, much like a possum (afraid of them, too) does on the road—and that once I got out of its sight, it would take off and torture me for days, leaving signs that it was there watching me. Even when I established that it was not going to be able to come after me and attack me, I was still panicking.

The only solution? Duh. Panic my children, of course, as all good mothers do. Specifically, panic the boys—because on that morning, they were officially the men of the house, and no daughter of mine should ever have to experience this kind of terror. I went into their room and woke them, as my sisters had done years before: loud and pleading and crying and begging for help. “Please get up… there’s a mouse… oh my God… I can’t look at it…you have to get it out of here…please, I can’t go out there,…please, if there’s one, they are probably everywhere…oh my god, I can’t breathe… please, get up…help me, please, please, please…”-all the while crying and hyperventilating and on the verge of absolute hysteria. Actually, not just on the verge: I was hysterical.

My boys were just a little upset with me. After telling me I was ridiculous and asking me to leave the room, they reluctantly got up-and then I told them it was dead. I’m no dummy…it would have sounded less urgent had they known it was dead already, and God only knows how long that stiff would have been lying by the front door. The boys grabbed the broom and dust pan and made their way to the mouse. I thought they were going to pick it up with the dust pan and throw it out, but there they were, half asleep, cold, and in their boxers, disposing of the mouse the way any ten and twelve year old boys would: like they were teeing off. One of them opened the front door and the other took swipes at the mouse. Before I knew it the broom was being swung like a golf club and the mouse had made its way out the front door…then a few more feet, and a few more, until it was given a final blow and went flying through the air, across the street into the neighbor’s yard.

It’s just all too much for me: the beady eyes and ugly tail, the smell and sounds; knowing that those small things can be just about anywhere, undetected for a time, watching and waiting and scheming. I hate them. I don’t remember the last time I set foot in a movie theater. I know, without a doubt, that those big spaces are overrun with hundreds and thousands of mice as soon as that building empties for the night. On the few occasions that I’ve been brave enough to see a movie before it’s released on DVD, I have to stick my feet up on the seat to be sure that no mouse is running over my feet or up my pants. There are restaurants I don’t go to because they have the smell or the look of a place that most assuredly is rodent infested. I don’t need proof, I just know. As for Mighty Mouse, Tom & Jerry, and Mickey & Minnie? I can’t watch or enjoy due to sensitive subject matter.

Home Depot is a great place with many, many, many friendly and helpful employees of the male persuasion…but the garden center? I have to force myself to go out there, and I try to avoid the aisle with fertilizer and potting soil at all costs. I know what’s lurking under and in those bags. Pet stores are cause for full blown panic attack. I can smell the pinkies as soon as I get to the door and I have to take the long way around the store to avoid seeing them. Every time I am in there, I am constantly planning my escape route in case one of them gets loose. And my drive on the 217 will never be the same since I ran over some dumb ass rat on Halloween weekend.

I mentioned rabbits: I don’t find them cute, either. I’ve made a half-assed attempt (not really) at trying to like them, but I can’t. I don’t even like Peeps. Rabbits were once classified in the order Rodentia, until somebody decided it didn’t seem right for a rodent to bring Easter candy to kids. Now they belong to the order Lagomorpha, but to me they are just bigger rodents. My sister has a rabbit which she dresses up in sweaters and hats and shrugs to match the seasons. I am afraid of that thing, too. I refer to her pet as IT and, just as I do in the presence of rodents, I can’t ever have my feet on the floor when I go over there. Rabbits are much like their fellow rodents, sitting and watching and scheming. IT never comes near me but recently as I was getting ready to head home, IT came charging at my feet from behind. Scared me to death and I almost (almost) burst into tears. I need therapy.