The Time I Flushed a Mouse Down the Toilet
I’m a very light sleeper. I can be awaken by the sound of a toilet flushing while I’m in another room. That was the form of rude awakening my girlfriend of eight years ago used on me when she was staying in my room on a hot summer night. I already had my eyes open before she softly tapped my stomach, one of my weak spots.
“Honey,” she said, sweetly. “I need you.”
“What’s the matter?” I said, with barely enough strength.
“Come to the bathroom.”
She grabbed my hand and led the way, as if I didn’t know how to get to the bathroom in my parents’ home that I had been living in for at least a decade. She pointed to the one-foot tall rubber waste container underneath the sink, which did not have a plastic bag nor trash inside. I heard scratching against the container. I leaned forward and spotted a tiny mouse trying to climb over what probably seemed like the Hoover Dam in its eyes.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked my girlfriend, who looked frightened by the little monster.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Do something.”
My options were limited. It was the middle of the night and everyone in the house was dead asleep. I couldn’t possibly suffocate the mouse with my bare hands, because the guilt would have kept me awake. I needed my sleep on this night, since my girlfriend and I had taken a mostly sleepless road trip from her parents home in Texas to California just a few days earlier. I couldn’t carry the container through the living room. It was the floor of that area where my parents, who lived in small villages across Cambodia and never really had beds, used it as a place to sleep, though with proper matting. Even the quietest of steps could cause the floor to squeak, enough to disturb my parents who passed down to me their ability to wake up at the lightest of noise. In retrospect, it would’ve been the best idea, once I made it past the living room, to drop off the mouse in the front yard, where one of the neighborhood cats could have played with it (translation: chewed on it) like a ball of yarn, something I had witnessed before.
I veered down once more at the waste container. I couldn’t just leave it in there until the morning, since the sound of the mouse scratching against the walls of its prison would have kept my girlfriend awake. I realized this was my superhero moment, to save her from such a scary monster. But actually, it was another test from my girlfriend. She was a babe. She was short and skinny and enjoyed showing off her curvy body with booty shorts and tight dresses. That body got me in troubling situations throughout our relationship. She once forced me to confront a man who grabbed her butt at an arcade. Another time, she spotted someone at the mall videotaping her while she shopping in a women‘s clothing store. I grabbed her by the hand and led her outside, avoiding a bad incident with the pervert and his three-man camera crew. It was hard work being her boyfriend.
And I knew getting rid of this mouse was another test.
I grabbed the container by its rim, flipping it upside down toward the toilet. Once the mouse was floating in a pool of unclean water, I pressed down on the handle and watched the little monster spiraling downward and using its tiny claws to attempt to climb out. I convinced myself the mouse was just going for a swim. In sewage water. My girlfriend clung onto a side of my body as if she was watching a scary movie. The thing was, I didn’t tell her what I wanted to do with the mouse. I just did it.
In the morning, I was awaken by my girlfriend’s stare. It was a pretty stare, from someone who looked perfect without makeup on. She whispered hello, then cleared her throat. She proceeded to say a series of words I didn’t expect.
“I can’t believe you flushed the mouse down the toilet,” she said, sweetly. “I can’t believe you did that.”
“Honey,” she said, sweetly. “I need you.”
“What’s the matter?” I said, with barely enough strength.
“Come to the bathroom.”
She grabbed my hand and led the way, as if I didn’t know how to get to the bathroom in my parents’ home that I had been living in for at least a decade. She pointed to the one-foot tall rubber waste container underneath the sink, which did not have a plastic bag nor trash inside. I heard scratching against the container. I leaned forward and spotted a tiny mouse trying to climb over what probably seemed like the Hoover Dam in its eyes.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked my girlfriend, who looked frightened by the little monster.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Do something.”
My options were limited. It was the middle of the night and everyone in the house was dead asleep. I couldn’t possibly suffocate the mouse with my bare hands, because the guilt would have kept me awake. I needed my sleep on this night, since my girlfriend and I had taken a mostly sleepless road trip from her parents home in Texas to California just a few days earlier. I couldn’t carry the container through the living room. It was the floor of that area where my parents, who lived in small villages across Cambodia and never really had beds, used it as a place to sleep, though with proper matting. Even the quietest of steps could cause the floor to squeak, enough to disturb my parents who passed down to me their ability to wake up at the lightest of noise. In retrospect, it would’ve been the best idea, once I made it past the living room, to drop off the mouse in the front yard, where one of the neighborhood cats could have played with it (translation: chewed on it) like a ball of yarn, something I had witnessed before.
I veered down once more at the waste container. I couldn’t just leave it in there until the morning, since the sound of the mouse scratching against the walls of its prison would have kept my girlfriend awake. I realized this was my superhero moment, to save her from such a scary monster. But actually, it was another test from my girlfriend. She was a babe. She was short and skinny and enjoyed showing off her curvy body with booty shorts and tight dresses. That body got me in troubling situations throughout our relationship. She once forced me to confront a man who grabbed her butt at an arcade. Another time, she spotted someone at the mall videotaping her while she shopping in a women‘s clothing store. I grabbed her by the hand and led her outside, avoiding a bad incident with the pervert and his three-man camera crew. It was hard work being her boyfriend.
And I knew getting rid of this mouse was another test.
I grabbed the container by its rim, flipping it upside down toward the toilet. Once the mouse was floating in a pool of unclean water, I pressed down on the handle and watched the little monster spiraling downward and using its tiny claws to attempt to climb out. I convinced myself the mouse was just going for a swim. In sewage water. My girlfriend clung onto a side of my body as if she was watching a scary movie. The thing was, I didn’t tell her what I wanted to do with the mouse. I just did it.
In the morning, I was awaken by my girlfriend’s stare. It was a pretty stare, from someone who looked perfect without makeup on. She whispered hello, then cleared her throat. She proceeded to say a series of words I didn’t expect.
“I can’t believe you flushed the mouse down the toilet,” she said, sweetly. “I can’t believe you did that.”