The Invader

When I unload the chicken food from my car, I note with irritation that all the bags have rodent chew holes in them.

Next time, I'll have to get out of the car, inspect the bags and load the grain myself.

I'd bought the 50-lb. bags at the local grain drive-thru. Yes, in rural western Ohio, we have a grain drive-thru that operates much like the beer and wine drive-thrus, which we also have. From the comfort of your car or truck, you place your order and watch as an employee loads the grain into your vehicle.

I thought no more of the rodent holes until a few days later when I got into the car and found a chewed Reese's Cup wrapper on the driver's seat. The mouse had also deposited his calling cards.

"Get out the traps. There is a mouse in my car and he likes chocolate!" I emailed my husband who was at work.

When I saw my husband later that evening, I recalled the incident with much hand-shaking and drama.

"I can't believe you'd get upset over a mouse."

In 16 years of living on the farm, I've dealt with a groundhog in the basement, raccoons in the barn, snow in the living room, snow blocking our driveway for days, days without electricity, mice, and, in the early days, rats.

But this mouse is flustering me.

"It's in my car," I say. "It's like finding a mouse in your purse."

I don't carry a purse. I drive a car, stocked with sunscreen, insect repellent, tissues, towels, jackets, rain gear, dog leashes, stock stick, Advil, hand and toe warmers, gloves, tools, water, the occasional snack -- and now, a mouse.

The husband sets a trap. He catches a mouse. He is not convinced there was only one.

Each night, he puts a loaded trap in my car.

Each morning, before opening the car door, I announce my presence. I bang on windows.

I find no more evidence of mouse.

When I get in the car on Saturday morning, snap! I'd forgotten about the mouse trap.

It's going to be some time before I forget about that mouse.