Mouse in My Pants

 

It was sometime in the late 1960s or early 1970s. I was somewhere between 10 and 14...maybe 15. I was on the second floor of our barn in Northeastern Indiana, "helping" my dad clean out the corn crib.

I say "helping" because I remember doing a lot of watching and very little actual shoveling or sweeping.

Times being when they were, I was wearing a t-shirt and a pair of, if not official bell-bottoms, at least a pair of pants with a healthy flare at the end of each leg.

This proved to be a poor choice in attire.

There were several ears of corn trapped between some slats of wood and the outer wall of the barn. When FlatulenceKing (my father) yanked on those slats, a mouse ran out from the comfort of its corn palace, across the barn floor, and directly into the warm safety of my pants' leg.

To be precise, the little varmint hooked its claws into the inside of my left pant leg and headed north as fast as it could scamper.

I trapped it against my thigh just as it reached the halfway point between my knee and my future generations.

With panic on my face and in my voice, I exclaimed, "What do I do?!?"

Dad grinned and said, "Squeeze as hard as you can."

Well...you can bet your sweet bippy I squeezed as hard as I could. I squeezed until my fingernails drew blood from the heel of my hand through two layers of fabric.

And then the moment of truth.

I released my deathgrip, vigorously shook my leg, and watched the flea-taxi hit the floor and scamper away.

Then I had to go help my dad get off the floor...where he was rolling and laughing.