Mouse Trap I’m spending the summer in Berkeley, California where I have taken up residence in the room of a charming Victorian house.  I share my quadrant of the house with one roommate, a super-nice recent graduate of UC Berkeley who spells her name, Jenafir.  She seems to be a somewhat recent convert to the world of Buddhism, but she’s extremely positive, declaring everything “Fantastic.” “Your plane got in on time?  Fantastic… that’s wonderful.” “It looks like you’re making yourself at home – that’s fantastic.” “How was your night?” “ I went to bed at nine and slept for 11 hours,”  I say. “That’s fantastic.  Sometimes sleep is just fantastic.” Anyways, Jenafir has a fantastic little black cat named Minna.  I have taken a liking to this cat, partially because I have had very little human contact in several days and also because she’s very cute.  Minna likes to be held like a human baby and yesterday as I lay in bed reading, she nestled into the crook of my arm and curled up to sleep. My first impression of Minna however, is not so sweet.  Less than an hour after I arrived at the house, the cat appeared in my open bedroom window carrying in her mouth what appeared to be a live mouse.  I was very tired from traveling, so I didn’t involve myself in the situation, instead continuing to talk on my cell phone, and wondering aloud if that was a real mouse.  The cat left my room and entered the living room where Buddhist Jenafir was entertaining her parents.  Some girlish screams ensued and I knew where we stood on the mouse front.  I was too exhausted to care and assumed the mouse would figure something out. The next morning, I made my way to the bathroom where I heard some peculiar noises.  I saw Minna, crouched by the toilet and a tiny squeaking mouse trapped in the corner by the plunger.  Horrified, I decided the cat had had her fun and removed her from the premises, locking her in Jenafir’s room.  This left the problem of the mouse in the bathroom and me wanting to take a shower.  I was confident that I could catch the mouse and take it outside, protecting my hand from mouse-bites with some sort of thick gardening glove.  I had to compromise and use a handtowel instead.  The towel proved to be far trickier as it allowed my hand less agility.  Still, the mouse is small and cornered.  I will pluck it out of the bathroom and it will realize my kindness as I release it unscathed into the wild. I’m not afraid of mice, but I am afraid of squeezing mice to death.  With the cushion of the towel I couldn’t tell how hard I was gripping, so every time I came near the mouse, it slipped away because I was worried I might crush it to the death, and, well, then I’m no better than the cat.  I spent about an hour in the bathroom trying to catch this mouse.  Eventually I changed my strategy and retrieved an oven mitt from the kitchen.  The mouse was so freaked out by then, that it developed super powers of escape.  It ran across the bathroom, out of its protected corner, and climbed up the shower curtain at super speed.  When it reached the curtain rod, it threw itself over and plummeted six feet to the tile floor of the shower.  I watched this, too surprised to move, certain the mouse had taken its own life with that stunt, but amazingly, it scurried to the corner of the shower and hid behind a Pantene shampoo bottle.  I spent the next half hour trying frantically to catch the mouse as it ran around the shower, taking cover behind various gels and lotions.  It continued to squeak piteously and every once in a while, when my mitted hand had it cornered, the mouse jumped straight into the air, probably getting a good four inches off the ground.  The longer I engaged in this game, the more nervous I became, wondering if mice are actually dangerous.  Maybe their teeth are much larger than I think and could easily puncture an oven mitt.  I decided to put a washcloth around my hand and then put my hand back in the oven mitt.  Still worried about my thumb, protected only by a mitt, I grew more timid in my attempts to catch the mouse.  I grasped for it, ever so gently as not to injure it, and each time it escaped I jumped a little.  Finally, my defenses had worn away and it escaped the confines of the little shower, and before I knew what had happened, got out of the bathroom.  I knew I could take a shower in peace now, but where would the mouse go? I felt hesitant stepping in the shower, wondering if mice carry the plague.  I decided to let the water run extra long before I got in, so that it could wash all the ebola away.  When I finished my shower, Minna was clearly stalking something behind a potted plant in the hallway.  I turned a blind-eye and shut my door.  I was worn out from my failed mouse hunt and figured Minna deserved a turn. I didn’t hear any more squeaks or see any more prowling, so I didn’t think much about it.  Today, I woke up, went to the bathroom, and noticed something strange on the green bathmat by the shower.  Assuring myself it was plant debris, I ignored it.  But it looked very familiar – almost like a tail.  I bent down, preparing to gag, and it was, in fact, a tiny mouse tail with a slightly bloody stump.  Oh God. I picked it up with tissue and threw it away, sickened, when I noticed a little scrap of gray fuzz nearby.  With extra toilet paper, so I wouldn’t accidentally feel it, I picked up what appeared to be a mouse leg.  I felt betrayed.  I let that cat sleep in my bed. As if that wasn’t enough, as I sit here writing the mouse story, I hear a noise at the door and a lot of squeaking.  It’s almost too perfect.  I jump up and see Minna come in through the pet door, holding a mouse in her teeth.  As she trots to the bathroom, I act quickly and shout “No Minna! Get out of here!”  And open the door to the porch, pointing and gesturing.  She looks up at me, the mouse limp in her mouth, and stares.  I make the “ch-ch” kitty-calling noise and point outside again and she understands.  I lock the pet door and go to my room to think.  I hear the door open and find that I have forgotten to latch the actual door through which Minna has entered.  She is in the bathroom, chasing the mouse.  I pick the cat up, throw her outside and get my trusty mitt.  The mouse jumps and I jump.  I shut the bathroom door.  Minna is in the house now, crying and trying to trip me every time I stand up.  She rubs against my legs and I feel sick.  Monster.  The mouse is safe in the bathroom.  Eventually, I open the door slowly, this time armed with Tupperware, and the mouse in nowhere to be seen.  I fear waking up next to a mouse head tomorrow because Minna is pissed.  I am uneasy about the whereabouts of the mouse, and possibly other severed mouse parts, so I alleviate some anxiety by showering with my sandals on.  Apparently I’m not as alone in Berkeley as I thought.