City Mouse

This is what I found at the end of my street, just one door north of the crack house. All three chairs were perfectly lined up. The yellow one was so pretty I thought about taking it home. It's amazing the kind of cool stuff people leave at the curb. If it wasn't for my neighbours cleaning out their basement, my record collection would still be in stacks of random boxes. But it has long been my policy never to pick up anything absorbent... or nestable.

Years ago, an ex boyfriend told me about the time his parents bought a new living room set. They picked it out at the showroom and a few days later it was delivered from a warehouse in a great big truck. It was all very exciting. They weren't rich people and a new couch was an event. But it turned out the warehouse was full of mice. Not long after the furniture arrived, it became apparent that mice had nested in the upholstery - a whole family of four-footed stowaways. Once rested from the journey (much to the horror of my boyfriends mother) they began eagerly exploring their new home. Total infestation.

My ex's dad did more or less what you'd expect: he swore a lot and pretty much carpeted the house in poison and snap-traps and - for safety - yelled at his three young children not to touch anything. It was the seventies, so they didn't.

One night a few weeks later, the happy little family sat in the living room: Mom, Dad, and three children under eight. They youngest, Marta, was only two or three. Suddenly, the tiniest, sweetest little mouse popped out from under an armoir. It was a charming thing, not quite full grown - not a bit scary. It bounced fearlessly into the center of the room. Marta giggled and clapped with glee. Even Dad had to admit he was a charming fellow - so brash! Of course no one considered he might be crazy with the poison.

Mr. Mouse stopped in the middle of the room, went into tiny, brutal convulsions and died.

And that's why I don't pick up upholstered things from the sidewalk.

That, and pee.
g.