Sometimes it's a 33 minute workout on the treadmill at the gym. Other times, it's an at-home workout on the elliipmachine and an episode of Mr. Sunshine (which I watch only on Hulu and I keep wishing will get better but it doesn't and I'm all "awwww, Chandler"). But on rare occasions, my sweatabetes workouts take place in my kitchen. While trying to wrangle in a teeny, brown field mouse named Cheesels. (Pronounced "cheese-els." As in "OMG there's Cheesels!")
Our house has a nice yard, and with it comes a bevy of critters. We have squirrels that appear to be planning some kind of coup, dancing madly in the backyard and running at a break-neck speed with nuts in their cheeks. We have the neighborhood cats who are sometimes on our back deck, making faces at our cats and flaunting their vast knowledge of the streets. And apparently, we have adorable field mice that want to have breakfast with us every morning.
Or at least we have this one, really resilient field mouse that refuses to vacate the premises.
Our first line of defense was our arsenal of cats. Three cats, you'd think they'd tap their instincts and make quick work of our little Cheesels. Nope. The first time the mouse made an appearance, all three cats were lounging in another room playing Risk. The second time, we actively put our most wily cat in the mouse's direct path, but Prussia simply licked her chops and strolled off. Our third attempt involved a humane mouse trap that had intentions to trap the mouse for a later, live release (but instead appeared to simply offer snacks to our squatter, and offered no actual 'trap').
But the fourth time Cheesels popped his little mousy head out was when Siah was on watch. And Siah beat the mouse senseless.
"Holy crap, it's like a mouse murder scene in here." Fuzzy brown fur littered the floor. "Surely this thing is dead now."
But nooooooo. Because yesterday, as my mother was hanging out with BSparl and I, we heard this little scuttling sound from the kitchen.
"Mom, you stay here with the baby. I'll go investigate. I think it's Cheesels."
"Okay," she said. (And I love that no one questions the fact that we've named our rodent nemesis.)
I slowly moved into the kitchen, broom in hand, to see Siah stalking something underneath the kitchen table. Upon closer inspection, I saw our mouse friend, wielding whiskers and a switchblade. And Siah looked positively elated with her new friend.
"Ahhhhhh!! Ooooooh!!!!" I yelled mostly unintelligible words and swatted madly at the mouse, who scurried away towards the stove.
"Come back here! Ahhh! Get away! Go outside oh my god get into the trap! Die! Get out! Siah! Kill this thing! Be a cat, damn it!" I knew I was sending this mouse mixed signals, but I just wanted it the eff OUT of my house.
My mother came out of the baby's room, looking determined. "Give me the broom. You go in there with the baby. I'll get this out." She seemed ... strong. Ready to battle the mouse. So I handed her the broom and went in to comfort my startled, non-mouse-fearing baby girl.
What happened next was an awkward and loud dance of mother, daughter, mouse, and broom. Yelling, "ooooh'ing," jumping on chairs and freaking out while trying to open doors to usher the mouse outside ... the calories burned must have been tremendous. It was the most graceless but direct form of mousercising my kitchen has ever witnessed.
"Did we get him?" we both said in unison, looking at the open door and not hearing any telltale squeaks.
"I think I shoved him out with the broom. He's gone. We're all set," my mother said, brandishing the broom like she was finishing a crusade. We were soothed by our conviction that we'd indeed solved the problem. The Dexcom wailed from the kitchen table, confirming that my mousercised sweatabetes was effective. (Oh exercise, how I find you in the strangest of places.)
My mother headed home. BSparl was snuggled and tucked into bed. Chris wasn't expected home for a few hours. So I settled in at the kitchen table to finish some paperwork.
I heard the scuttling of little feet. And I felt something staring at me. I turned around, slowly, to see Cheesels standing on the top of the stove, little paws raised in victory and holding my wallet.
I'll get you next time, Cheesels. Next time.