I vacuumed a mouse

I READ IT from the legendary Andy Rooney that vacation shouldn't be taxing to make you feel like taking another after having one. Well unfortunately I think I just had one the past nine days.

The run-up to our grand excursion to the beach was gripped with suspense and slam-bang action. Maxi had back-to-back affairs in school. I had three coverages right on the last day before the trip. Vangie had errands. Mavi was busy wondering what bikinis to wear.

What we left behind were mountains of laundry and a wild jungle, rain-forest of a house. We kept them in the deep recesses of our minds, hoping they will disappear while we basked in the sun and drink margarita and vodka martini by the beach.

But sure enough, we came back home to their menacing embrace. And just as soon as we realized we had a lot of stuff to do, move, transfer, throw away, file, and clean up, the energy we have recharged over the weekend drained just as fast.

There were some excitement in the general cleaning, though.

Like when the juggernaut reached the kitchen –where we also kept our shoes – Vangie noticed something stirring from among the boxes underneath. So she called up the Man of the House.

I'm not afraid of critters, roaches or rats. I once crushed a two-foot snake coiled by the washing machine one evening after arriving from the office. But that was topic for another blog entry.

One by one, with bated breath, I took out the boxes. Silently I was preparing for something to jump on me. But nothing came out until I reached the last box tucked in the corner. I lifted it slightly. Shook gently. And out came a small rat.

It hopped away and scurried by the LPG tank. I didn't make any attempt to hit it or crush it by my feet because I might break things. I slammed the kitchen door so it couldn't get into the house and hold my girls hostage. But it dashed by the table and took cover in the hamper now brimming with laundry. I then took a calibrated preemptive response.

I opened the back door in case it decides to lay down its arms and avoid bloodshed. But the suspect refused my offer. Instead, it took refuge in the back of washing machine, by the umbrellas and some clothes that were strewn by the commotion.

Listen, that washing machine, just because it was located near the back door, has now been a favorite battleground between me and small animals.

But I let it rest. I got the vacuum cleaner and cleaned up the mess. From where the shoe boxes were until I again reached the battleground. I moved it gently. Nothing. Vangie asked if it's gone. I said most probably. I moved the washing machine to a different spot so I can vacuum the floor underneath.

I trained the nozzle at the ends of the linoleum fold and then suddenly things happened so fast. The vacuum cleaner went crazy. It's as if it was choking. There was a loud buzzing noise all the way up from the nozzle to the hose and down to the dust bag inside the vacuum cleaner.

Then there was silence. I looked at Vangie and she nodded knowingly, like some mafia boss happy after an excellent whacking job of a rival family member.