Not a creature was stirring. Or so we thought.

My other two housemates went home to California for the wintertime holidays, which left Seth and myself with a little over a week of having the place entirely to ourselves. After sharing a room for the past two months, we literally (but not really literally) exploded across the apartment, though reluctantly we had to pack it all back in when it came time for their return. Rachel moved back in on January first, and Matt on the third.

And in the meantime, so did Minnie and Fievel.

A few weeks ago, I was sitting on the ol' sleeping futon, yacking with Seth and getting ready for bed, when a small furry thing darts from the closet out the door and into the bathroom. I've stared down bulbous cockroaches and lurking subway creepsters without blanching, but at that moment I let out a shriek that would put Fay Wray to shame and leaped--nay, launched--backwards in your classic jumping-on-the-chair moment.

My mom trained me good and early to not be afriad of squishing bugs, as our ground-level apartment would attract the occasional creepy-crawly; though in my college years, I grew guilty when it came to spiders and let them free, and my dog would usually eat most of the insects before they came to my attention. This was the first time I've had to deal with vermin that are actually cute.

"What is it?" Rachel called from the other room.

"Ummmm...I think there might be a mouse."

"Aww, it's okay. Here, let me try to find him. Where did he go?" She got a strainer off of the dish shelf. "Here, Mickey....Come on out..." She peered into the bathroom and behind the suitcases in the hall, but found nothing. "Here, Fievel....Shit. I'll get the poison."

"Christ."

I felt awful. When I was a kid, I wanted a mouse for a pet. They were soft, kind of tame, didn't eat much, and the one in The Witches could do tricks. I'd even given myself the nickname "Mouse" for a grade or two in elementary school. Now, not only did I have to be responsible for their extermination, but there was also the liklihood that I'd witness one writhing to its poor little death after devouring seemingly innocent peanut butter-coated blue pellets.

During a Futurama marathon a day or two after Christmas, while we made as much noise as we wanted and took liberal cigarette breaks out on the fire escape which our roommates forbade us to go, Seth heard a rustling in the garbage bag by the door. He poked it, listened, and after a moment there was more rustling. "I think the mouse is in the trash bag," he said.

"I think we need to take out the trash," I replied.

We thought the coast was clear, especially since the poisoned peanut butter clumps were disappearing from the mouse dish outside the cracks in the wall borders. All was well until the day after Rachel returned. I walked into our room and Seth said, "I have bad news. The mouse is back."

"Oh no."

"And it's a baby."

"Oh shit."

This Is Shorter, I Promise: Reflections Upon Leaving St. Louis

The first night I went to dinner with my brother, my mom, her douchebag boyfriend, and Joey and Rosie Pini. Almost all of us had margaritas. It was the first time my mom had consciously drank in front of me. I was both surprised and not surprised that I could recognize the behavior.

I got to see everyone I wanted except two: my aunt and Kellie. I haven't seen my aunt for over a year and a half, and I didn't get to give Kellie the picture I drew of her. Such is life.

I tried to visit Chekhov at Rachel's parents' house. They weren't home, so I didn't really get to. He had on a chain collar and growled at Christian and me when we approached the door.

I spent the most time with Christian, which I think was appropriate.

I haven't considered St. Louis "home" in quite some time.

Doggaroo

Chekhov is probably approaching Columbia right now, in the backseat of Rachel's car on the way to her parents' house. I had to give him away because not only would it be more difficult to find a place in New York or elsewhere if I had a dog, it would make the moving process more difficult as well. Her parents have a bigger house, a yard, another dog to play with, and empty nest syndrome, making them the perfect adoptive parents, especially since I've been friends with her for years and I'd be able to visit him whenever I'm in St. Louis.

I've had him for over two years. I got him from a frat that was having a puppy-a-thon when one of their dogs had her litter, and bought him for twenty dollars on the most uncharacteristic impulse of my life. Not only was I not a dog person, but I had to ask one of my friends to hold him in my car on the way to Wal-Mart that afternoon when I went in to puzzle out exactly what the hell a puppy needed. I had to go back to the store twice.

I'm glad I got him when he was that young. I like starting things from the beginning.

During his rearing, I lost over seven pairs of shoes, tens of CDs (some of which belonged to other people), at least five books (two of which were library books, and one of which was entitled "How to Train Your Dog"), countless waterbottles, my couch, three or four stuffed animals, a stick of deodorant, and piles of paper--among other forgotten items--to his developing jaws. I learned to let go of things. I also learned to put them in places he couldn't reach. Sometimes that didn't work.

Chekhov took after me in odd, uncanny ways, perhaps because I found myself resembling my mother in other, humbling ways. He enjoys eating apples, vegetables, bread, and grass. One time I came home and found he had eaten half a can of icing, his snout still in the container and his paws and fur all sticky. He hid under the bed for several hours after that. He doesn't slobber or lick excessively, but I trained him to give kisses: two small licks on the hand, more if I have something he wants. He only does it to me. He howls when fire engine sirens are sounding and when I'm playing opera music. He has more nicknames than I can count, consisting mostly of combinations of Chekhov, Bear, Stinky, Chunky, Muppet, and Roo. He is the most extreme balance of happy, goofy, protective, loving, and tolerant that ever kicked its leg when you scratched its stomach. I don't think I'd be the person today if I hadn't gotten him, and I don't know what life will be like without. Less happy, I imagine.

It's too fucking quiet in here.

Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.

I threw a dinner party last Wednesday, partially to find homes for some zucchini and eggs, but mostly in honor of Amber leaving Kirksville to make something of her life back home near Chicago. We all drank three bottles of wine, used three dishcloths for sweat-rags when my lack of an air-conditioner grew too much to handle, and burned a million leftover sparklers before it began raining. She visited JavaCo a few hours before she left on Friday, to say hello and get a bagel before resuming packing. When she was gone I was left with a strange desperate emptiness, like when you're a little kid and you accidentally drop a toy into the ocean or let your helium balloon slip from your hand, and all you can do is helplessly watch it float away, and the only thing you can think of is all the fun you won't be having with it now that it's gone.

I've made plans for new living arrangements in Kirksville if I need them--ones I'm actually a little excited about. My dog is leaving for Rachel's parents in St. Louis next week--which I'm not looking forward to at all. I auditioned for No Sex Please, We're British and received a sassy bit part that I can duck out of easily if I need to skip town. My two employers have assured me I can work there as long as I want. Meanwhile, all the college kids are coming back in droves, and each one has probably heard a slightly different version of what I'm doing. I don't know how to budget my time because I don't know how much there is to spend. It could be two weeks. It could be two months. It's difficult to feel a proper good-bye if I have no clue when I'm going, and I don't know if it makes it any easier if the ones around me are leaving or staying as well.

Army of Geriatrics

I was walking my dog yesterday when an old black lab started following us. He ran ahead, behind, and around us, marking every bush in sight and reach. I was surprised that he had it in him. He kept up almost the entire way, right until the final stretch home. He had a collar on, so I wasn't as concerned with his health as much as his safety, as he clearly had no concept of the moving vehicle or how fast it could go.

I rode my bicycle down Potter Street today when I kept crossing paths with (and ending up behind) a sixty-something man on his own bike. I wasn't as concerned with passing him as I was with trying to lose him by taking side streets, as it's pretty awkward to be stuck behind a stranger who knows full well you're there.

As neutral as I feel towards old people, I'm worried that this is going to become a trend. There's already an older man who comes into the coffeeshop all day Sunday, orders refill after refill while working on his screenplay, and has offered to pay me $10 an hour licking envelopes for him when it comes time to send it out. I can picture driving home on Memorial Day, sandwiched between sedan after station wagon after beige Camry, right as Highway 63 turns into one lane. Even worse, I'm sure some elderly dame will feel the strongest need to cross the road right as I'm at cruising speed but within stopping distance.

Nevertheless, I was tempted to keep tailing the guy on the bike all the way home, just to see if the dog might be there too.

Hypersomniacs Anonymous

I've recently gotten into the habit of using sleep as a coping mechanism.
Sometimes it's a by-product of trying to read in bed and suceeding only in dozing and paying off more towards a four-year sleep debt. Other times it's an effort to quell the cloudy mess in my conscious mind that makes it hard to be productive when I am awake.

My dog is asleep right now. It's the first time I've seen him in that state since he was a puppy. He doesn't let himself drift off when I'm around and awake. Even now his eyes aren't completely shut; whether it's a protective instinct or just the way he is, I don't know. His feet and snout twitch like he's chasing something in his dreams.