We recently inherited an aged, out-of-tune piano that is currently sitting in our kitchen. With the piano came a piano bench, and with the piano bench came used and worn years' worth of piano books. This afternoon I had the bright idea of moving the piano bench to Catcher's room, where we keep the digital piano that the kids actually use for practicing (it has no bench of its own). This was the perfect opportunity to go through the music in the bench to see if there was anything worth keeping.
The Christmas books were a "yes," and Catcher found a song book with music from Superman and Star Wars (obvious yes). There were a couple random hymn books (no), and at the bottom of it all we found someone's old music bag. The bag was unzipped and in the corner there was a big ball of what appeared to be dust. Upon further inspection, however, and a strange smell accompanying our discovery, Catcher and I realized that ball of dust was actually a dead mouse. This is true. I saw its hollowed out eyes and its tiny rows of teeth. Catcher and I looked at each other in horror as, at the exact same time, we both figured out what we had stumbled upon. I dropped the bag back into the bench, and Catcher ran from the room.
As I was recovering from my shock--and also harboring a disposal plan in my head--Catcher paced around the dining room saying, "My stomach feels funny." I hear you, kid. My stomach felt funny, too. Thank goodness the critter was inside the bag, so I didn't have to look at him or sweep him into a dustpan with that dead face glaring at me. I'm giving myself the chills thinking about it now.
After the little mouse was properly disposed of in the garbage outside, I figured it was time to tell Catcher my other mouse story--the one where I cooked a mouse in the oven the first time I ever used the oven in the first apartment I rented in New York City. They say thing happen in threes, but I hope they don't mean random encounters with a dead mouse.