I was lounging with my woman on the couch the other day. We were watching Comedy Central and, more specifically, the Blue Collar Comedy Hour. As an intro to a rather funny skit, Jeff Foxworthy was pointing out the curious fact that men appreciate horrible smells in far different ways than females. I believe he mentioned that we could spend whole afternoons creating them ourselves.
Anyway, he chose to illustrate his point by whipping out a bottle of doe-in-heat urine and having his mixed group of friends get a big ol’ whiff. His point was well made. The women were on the verge of heaving while the men were anxiously waiting their turn to marvel at the hideous bouquet of pre-packaged she-deer piss. Several went for seconds.
I digress…
I have always had an affinity for animals. If forced to categorize myself I would have to say I was a cat person. I have, I hesitate to say owned, it’s really more like cohabitated with, many cats since I was an infant. I find them unique, independent, and far easier to care for than dogs, fish, or hamsters. I enjoy the whole aspect of having a bloodthirsty predator, in miniature, hang out on the couch. Sadly, not all cats are true killers. Some may play with animals they are lucky enough to catch but they don’t actually kill them to eat. Often the hapless bird, bunny, or rodent dies from incidental or unintentional puncture. Not really what I would call “bloodthirsty.”
Anyway, a dog owner would rarely get the opportunity to view their animal hunt. A cat owner however can watch their kitty wait motionless for an extended period until a snack walks into its kill zone. The cat will then observe its target, anticipate its victim’s next move, and choose the perfect attack position. Then comes the excitement. The pupils widen. The ears tuck down. The haunches load-up for the pounce. The vibration of the rear-end as the cat prepares to launch. Then WHAM! With singular focus, and in the blink of an eye, another victim feels the hot breath and sharp teeth of small cuddly Fluffy.
I bring this up because I have the pleasure of sharing my house with what is undoubtedly the most efficient, effective, and highly-motivated killer to ever walk Watauga County.
Her name, according to Hoyle, is officially, Moon Pie. Her unofficial name, and the title I feel she has no-shit earned, is: The Great Moonius Pieus.
Observe:
Now, as you can plainly see, her kung-fu is impressive. Yet, the extent of her fierceness is lost on most humans. It is all too easy to overlook her lethal use of violence when she’s figure-eighting about your ankles and purring at 65 decibels.
A reasonable person would assume that her supply of consumables would dwindle due to her leaving a tri-weekly mound of apparently untasty entrails on the front stoop. The reality is that rodents, bunnies, and birds have tiny brains and traipse about blindly right up until the point where…you get the idea.
Today, I found the smart mouse. The statistical anomaly.
I’ll get to the specifics in a moment, but here is what I’m thinking went down…
Moonie had one get away. For whatever reason, Darwin, luck, above-rodent-average foot speed, who knows, this particular rodent was somehow successful in escaping death-by-Moon. Luckily, he had a handy location to immediately bolt to affect this escape. My truck, parked in the driveway. Now this mouse, not yet a loser, realized that Moonie was fully capable of continuing the chase beneath parked cars and so continued at full speed into recesses of the vehicle that he knew were beyond a cat’s ability to penetrate. At this point he was faced with a choice: stop here and wait for the threat to pass, or continue to flee into the dark depths. Sadly, my man chose B.
Near as I can tell this exciting episode occurred at least three days previous. I’ll fill you in on how I came to this conclusion.
This morning was a little foggy with a hint of early chill. As a result, my vision, upon entering my vehicle, was obscured by a light mist on the windshield. To rectify this condition I quite naturally reached to the climate control panel, slid one slider to “hot,” and another to “defrost.” Immediately my curiosity was piqued by an unusual sound. The blower motor, which has maintained a soothing hum for 13 years, was now signaling that something was definitely amiss. Naturally, considering the age of the motor, wiring, and blade assembly, my initial reaction was to assume that once again something broke on my rolling cash eliminator. The Syclone was feeling the full brunt of my verbal bashing when the repeated turning on and off of the blower failed to change its sickly status.
It was then that I noticed an accompanying odor.
My first thought was that I smelled the aroma of antifreeze burning on the hot exhaust. My brain quickly compared the current aroma to the stored smell-file of burning coolant. Clearly the two were not the same. Indeed, the smell emanating from the windshield vents and blowing directly into my nostrils had the tinge of something quite removed from scorched ethylene glycol. There was a hint of something familiar but I could not get a handle on it. I resolved to just turn it off and deal with it later. Off to work I went.
The trip to work was odd. I had hoped that the smell would lessen if it weren’t being actively forced into the cabin. It was not. It actually seemed to be strengthening. I still couldn’t place it. By the time I arrived at work some minutes later I had started to speculate that I might be dealing with a possible dead animal under the hood. I had to deal with a rodent nest under the intercooler some months ago. Whatever, I merrily went about the workday until lunch.
I had not considered that the rise in temperature and the several hours of sun on my black truck would serve to amplify the still mysterious odor. I opened the windows, in the rain, and sped away breathing through my mouth. Soon I opened the rear window to further increase the outdraft of nast. Finally I resorted to chain-smoking to deceive my nose into thinking that the acrid fumes of deceased beast really were not assaulting it.
The realization. Not long before I reached the house I began to realize the horror. The clues I had been receiving all morning were beginning to dawn on me. A mouse had most likely expired at some earlier time, perhaps several days, I remembered I had not used the defrost for quite some time. He must have looked at the sharp fins of the blower blade as a quaint spot to die. The chain of events had gone unnoticed until the fateful moment when I flipped the switch. I knew what I was dealing with.
Frappe d’ mouse.
I was still clinging to the hope that my theory was mere paranoia as I disassembled the blower in the garage. I was trying not to imagine the scene that was but five small sheet metal screws away. Well…
I saw it. Fur. The blower began to fall away from its housing. The stench was now more intense than could possibly be imagined. I had up until now the luxury of having it filtered by several feet of ducting and a similar amount of physical distance. No longer. I was at the source, nay, the fucking mother lode.
A GMC blower motor should look like this:
Mine however, looked like this:
The observer will note, as I did, that I was dealing with a semi-intact mouse. At best I had the hind quarters and tail. My knowledge of rodent anatomy made it apparent that the more juicy parts of my friend here were nowhere to be seen. I inspected the orifice:
Found ‘em!
Centrifugal force, and the chopping action of sharp plastic blades, combined with a not-recently-deceased mouse had produced a halo of bloodless yet still moist fur possessing an aroma that defies realistic description.
I was standing there, trying not to gag, forcing myself into fathoming the scope of my dilemma. There are three different avenues for high-velocity mouse chunks. The ducting to the windshield vents. The ducting to the floor vents. And most disturbingly the myriad tiny sharp coils of the air conditioning condenser. I was contemplating the impossibility of cleaning through such a tiny orifice. It was then that I remembered that I don’t really like, or use, air conditioning. This lasted for just a few seconds because I then remembered that I really do enjoy heat. I then began to ponder the joy of heat when it is combined with hot mouse.
I have a chore ahead of me. It saddens me.
I wonder if insurance has a clause for spin-cycled rodents in hard to reach areas?
Somehow I doubt it.
Go Moonie.
Anyway, he chose to illustrate his point by whipping out a bottle of doe-in-heat urine and having his mixed group of friends get a big ol’ whiff. His point was well made. The women were on the verge of heaving while the men were anxiously waiting their turn to marvel at the hideous bouquet of pre-packaged she-deer piss. Several went for seconds.
I digress…
I have always had an affinity for animals. If forced to categorize myself I would have to say I was a cat person. I have, I hesitate to say owned, it’s really more like cohabitated with, many cats since I was an infant. I find them unique, independent, and far easier to care for than dogs, fish, or hamsters. I enjoy the whole aspect of having a bloodthirsty predator, in miniature, hang out on the couch. Sadly, not all cats are true killers. Some may play with animals they are lucky enough to catch but they don’t actually kill them to eat. Often the hapless bird, bunny, or rodent dies from incidental or unintentional puncture. Not really what I would call “bloodthirsty.”
Anyway, a dog owner would rarely get the opportunity to view their animal hunt. A cat owner however can watch their kitty wait motionless for an extended period until a snack walks into its kill zone. The cat will then observe its target, anticipate its victim’s next move, and choose the perfect attack position. Then comes the excitement. The pupils widen. The ears tuck down. The haunches load-up for the pounce. The vibration of the rear-end as the cat prepares to launch. Then WHAM! With singular focus, and in the blink of an eye, another victim feels the hot breath and sharp teeth of small cuddly Fluffy.
I bring this up because I have the pleasure of sharing my house with what is undoubtedly the most efficient, effective, and highly-motivated killer to ever walk Watauga County.
Her name, according to Hoyle, is officially, Moon Pie. Her unofficial name, and the title I feel she has no-shit earned, is: The Great Moonius Pieus.
Observe:
Now, as you can plainly see, her kung-fu is impressive. Yet, the extent of her fierceness is lost on most humans. It is all too easy to overlook her lethal use of violence when she’s figure-eighting about your ankles and purring at 65 decibels.
A reasonable person would assume that her supply of consumables would dwindle due to her leaving a tri-weekly mound of apparently untasty entrails on the front stoop. The reality is that rodents, bunnies, and birds have tiny brains and traipse about blindly right up until the point where…you get the idea.
Today, I found the smart mouse. The statistical anomaly.
I’ll get to the specifics in a moment, but here is what I’m thinking went down…
Moonie had one get away. For whatever reason, Darwin, luck, above-rodent-average foot speed, who knows, this particular rodent was somehow successful in escaping death-by-Moon. Luckily, he had a handy location to immediately bolt to affect this escape. My truck, parked in the driveway. Now this mouse, not yet a loser, realized that Moonie was fully capable of continuing the chase beneath parked cars and so continued at full speed into recesses of the vehicle that he knew were beyond a cat’s ability to penetrate. At this point he was faced with a choice: stop here and wait for the threat to pass, or continue to flee into the dark depths. Sadly, my man chose B.
Near as I can tell this exciting episode occurred at least three days previous. I’ll fill you in on how I came to this conclusion.
This morning was a little foggy with a hint of early chill. As a result, my vision, upon entering my vehicle, was obscured by a light mist on the windshield. To rectify this condition I quite naturally reached to the climate control panel, slid one slider to “hot,” and another to “defrost.” Immediately my curiosity was piqued by an unusual sound. The blower motor, which has maintained a soothing hum for 13 years, was now signaling that something was definitely amiss. Naturally, considering the age of the motor, wiring, and blade assembly, my initial reaction was to assume that once again something broke on my rolling cash eliminator. The Syclone was feeling the full brunt of my verbal bashing when the repeated turning on and off of the blower failed to change its sickly status.
It was then that I noticed an accompanying odor.
My first thought was that I smelled the aroma of antifreeze burning on the hot exhaust. My brain quickly compared the current aroma to the stored smell-file of burning coolant. Clearly the two were not the same. Indeed, the smell emanating from the windshield vents and blowing directly into my nostrils had the tinge of something quite removed from scorched ethylene glycol. There was a hint of something familiar but I could not get a handle on it. I resolved to just turn it off and deal with it later. Off to work I went.
The trip to work was odd. I had hoped that the smell would lessen if it weren’t being actively forced into the cabin. It was not. It actually seemed to be strengthening. I still couldn’t place it. By the time I arrived at work some minutes later I had started to speculate that I might be dealing with a possible dead animal under the hood. I had to deal with a rodent nest under the intercooler some months ago. Whatever, I merrily went about the workday until lunch.
I had not considered that the rise in temperature and the several hours of sun on my black truck would serve to amplify the still mysterious odor. I opened the windows, in the rain, and sped away breathing through my mouth. Soon I opened the rear window to further increase the outdraft of nast. Finally I resorted to chain-smoking to deceive my nose into thinking that the acrid fumes of deceased beast really were not assaulting it.
The realization. Not long before I reached the house I began to realize the horror. The clues I had been receiving all morning were beginning to dawn on me. A mouse had most likely expired at some earlier time, perhaps several days, I remembered I had not used the defrost for quite some time. He must have looked at the sharp fins of the blower blade as a quaint spot to die. The chain of events had gone unnoticed until the fateful moment when I flipped the switch. I knew what I was dealing with.
Frappe d’ mouse.
I was still clinging to the hope that my theory was mere paranoia as I disassembled the blower in the garage. I was trying not to imagine the scene that was but five small sheet metal screws away. Well…
I saw it. Fur. The blower began to fall away from its housing. The stench was now more intense than could possibly be imagined. I had up until now the luxury of having it filtered by several feet of ducting and a similar amount of physical distance. No longer. I was at the source, nay, the fucking mother lode.
A GMC blower motor should look like this:
Mine however, looked like this:
The observer will note, as I did, that I was dealing with a semi-intact mouse. At best I had the hind quarters and tail. My knowledge of rodent anatomy made it apparent that the more juicy parts of my friend here were nowhere to be seen. I inspected the orifice:
Found ‘em!
Centrifugal force, and the chopping action of sharp plastic blades, combined with a not-recently-deceased mouse had produced a halo of bloodless yet still moist fur possessing an aroma that defies realistic description.
I was standing there, trying not to gag, forcing myself into fathoming the scope of my dilemma. There are three different avenues for high-velocity mouse chunks. The ducting to the windshield vents. The ducting to the floor vents. And most disturbingly the myriad tiny sharp coils of the air conditioning condenser. I was contemplating the impossibility of cleaning through such a tiny orifice. It was then that I remembered that I don’t really like, or use, air conditioning. This lasted for just a few seconds because I then remembered that I really do enjoy heat. I then began to ponder the joy of heat when it is combined with hot mouse.
I have a chore ahead of me. It saddens me.
I wonder if insurance has a clause for spin-cycled rodents in hard to reach areas?
Somehow I doubt it.
Go Moonie.
