Mouse in My House Part II

...
I couldn't sleep last night.

As I was writing about my mouse just before bed, he ran out from under my bed and scurried out of my room. Gross.
I prayed that God would help me with my mouse situation; that he would give me the courage and strength to step out of bed to close my bedroom door so I wouldn't have to sleep with the fear that he'd be joining me later. One giant hop to the door to slam it shut and a dive back into bed was the best I could do.

I woke up at 2 o'clock in the morning to a sound I wasn't sure about. It took me a bit to come to my senses, but when I did, I was mortified to find that my door was open. I prayed to Jesus that it was a robber, not the mouse.

I couldn't sleep for two hours after that. I closed my eyes and felt my heart beating all the way into my throat from mouse-attack anxiety. I opened my eyes and stared at my door, cracked a quarter of the way open, wishing I had it in me to get up and close it one more time. I couldn't do that, though. What if the mouse was in my room? I'd just close him in! Gross.

My alert imagination began to drift about the mouse; my sleepy dreams battled for my attention, too. I'm not sure if I was half asleep or half awake when I thought, "I wonder if Walmart has stilts for sale? I think tomorrow I need to go buy some stilts to strap on when I come home so I don't have to worry about my mouse. Stilts rhymes with quilts. That's what the mice in my livingroom are pooping on right now. My quilts. They're probably throwing a party. Party poopers."

I could write a children's book about my mouse experience someday. For now, it's not a laughing matter. For now, I'm being held hostage in my own home by a 3.5 inch animal with over-active bowels. Gross.