This is a tale of a mouse. A mighty mouse. No, not this one.
More like this one.
What makes a mighty mouse? What makes a mouse mighty? I say it’s by doing mighty deeds. But what motivates a mighty mouse to do mighty deeds?
A sense of duty? Honor? Is it because he has the firm conviction to never give up? Never surrender?
Or could it be because he is really, really, really stoned? Allow me to explain.
This is a true story. You can’t make this up. OK, I guess you could make it up. But that’s not the point! I’m not making it up. It really happened.
We have a mouse problem at our house. The problem being that we have a mouse in our house. OK, to be honest, we probably have more than one mouse. They tend to hang out in groups. I don’t want to bring in an exterminator because, well they exterminate. I have no beef with the mice. I just don’t want them in the house. So I bought one of those “mice repelling noise generators” that’s supposed to drive the mice out of the house.
I put it in the basement where all the mice are. Or were. The device worked. Sort of. It drove them out of the basement, but it didn’t drive them out of the house. It drove them upstairs. Well, at least it drove one of them upstairs.
Every night for the last month, between the hours of 9 PM and 10 PM, while we are watching television, Ellin would suddenly scream “Did you see that? A mouse came up from the basement and ran across the hall!”
I never would see it. It happened really fast. About a half hour later Ellin would see him running back down into the basement. This happened every night. We soon surmised that the mouse was running into our mud room. Why?
We finally realized we had stored a bag of dog food in the mudroom. It had ripped open a few months back. Ellin thought she had cleaned up all the loose kibble. Obviously, she hadn’t. Our mouse was making a dinner run, then going home. Home. To our basement.
One of the rooms in our basement is our studio. I left a little plastic baggie on a table that contained three gummy fish candies.
They weren’t regular gummy fish candies. They were “special” gummy fish candies. According to the label, they each contained 10% THC. Pot. They had been on the table for about a month. Then one day about a week ago, I went downstairs and noticed that the little plastic bag was still there, but the “candies” weren’t.
My first thought was. “Damn it! A mouse stole my stash!”
But then my second thought was “Damn, a mouse ate all three of those candies? Wouldn’t that kill him?” Then I thought, “Well, maybe it was more than one mouse.”
I then imagined what the conversation must have been between them about 4 hours after they ate my stash.
MOUSE 1: Whoa …
MOUSE 2: Have you ever thought that maybe the whole universe is just a single atom in a single molecule of a single cell that is part of a really big, really huge mouse?
MOUSE 3: Whoa …
MOUSE 1: Have you ever looked at your paws? I mean, really looked at them?
MOUSE 3: Whoa …
MOUSE 2: What were we talking about?
I forgot about the whole incident until the next night. Ellin and I were again watching TV when we heard a really odd, loud scratching sound coming from the kitchen. I got up and walked into the kitchen. I found our mouse trying to open the lid to the wooden bin where we store our dry dog food.
He was so intent on what he was doing I was almost able to catch him and put him outside. But at the last second, he saw me and ran away. I then realized that if anybody needed proof that you can’t overdose on pot, I was looking at it. I couldn’t help but hum a variation of that song “High Hopes”.
Everyone knows a mouse can’t,
Raise the lid of that box.
But he had high hopes,
He had high hopes,
He had high apple pie in the sky hopes.
And laughing to myself I went upstairs to go to sleep. I was awakened early the next morning to Ellin downstairs screaming.
TOM! THERE’S A MOUSE IN THE DOG FOOD!!!
I ran downstairs and looked in the box. No mouse.
“Are you sure he was in there?” I asked my wife.
“Yes, he ran over my hand!!”
So, as my wife freaked out and I couldn’t stop laughing, both of our dogs glowered at us. Basically saying “Mouse, schmouse. Where the hell is our breakfast?”
So now we have to put an old unused TiVo box on the dog food bin. Why a TiVo box? It was there. (I told you it would become relevant to the story)
The mouse is still in the house. He hasn’t come back upstairs in days. Maybe he left. Maybe he’s still full. Maybe he’s just looking at his paws.
So there you have it. The tale of a mouse.
A mighty mouse.
A mighty, stoned mouse.