“Come quick, there’s an emergency at mommy’s.” Not the words I’d want to hear on any given day but considering that my mother had just gotten home from major surgery they really weren’t words I wanted to hear.

My sister sounded out of breath and frazzled and given her always-polished-and –in-control- demeanor, coupled with the fact that we don’t talk, it had to be life and death. I didn’t ask questions or bother to change out of the workout clothes I was sweating in. I just hauled ass.

I ran the three blocks to my mother’s house with Olympic strides that mirrored FloJo and burst through the door like DEA. The nightmarish images of my mother lying unconscious on the floor with my sister leaning helplessly over her were miles from the comfortable seated positions I found them both in on the living room couch.

My mother looked calmly at me, reminded me that ladies don’t slam through doors and asked why I was so out of breath and looking like a ragamuffin. I immediately looked at my sister and demanded to know what in hell the big emergency was.

“There’s a mouse in the kitchen.”

“And?” I demanded louder.

My sister, dressed liked a Sex and the City extra, looked genuinely surprised as if I should have somehow recognized the urgency of the situation. “And mommy wants you to catch it.”

“And you can’t catch it why?” I shook my head. “Stupid question, never mind. Where is he?”

“He was on the counter by the toaster eating the cheese from the trap.”

I just rolled my eyes on my way into the kitchen and sure enough there he sat. a rather plump happy looking little brown rodent. I looked at him and offered my congratulations on his having outsmarted the cruelty of modern design.

“Don’t make friends with it!” My mother yelled from the safety of the living room. “It’s not a pet.”

Well…not yet it wasn’t.  I went to the storage closet and selected a Tupperware I thought he’d be comfy in.  I stole the Feta cheese from the fridge and sprinkled it into the Tupperware and put it on the counter and waited.

“What’s going on in there?”

“He’s deciding if he likes Feta.”

“My Feta?”

“I doubt anymore.” I put the lid on top of the container. “He’s decided he likes it.” I strolled casually with Tupperware trapped rodent in hand into the living room whereupon my mother exclaimed in her best Maria Callas voice about that being her good Tupperware. “Oh, sorry.” I held it out to her. “Here.”

She put up her hands in either surrender or ‘stop’ fashion. “Just take him out of the house and get rid of him. And those sweatpants have a bleach stain on them.” She called after me.

We’re a lot alike, me and the tiny terror, we’ve each survived the elements, the odds and judgment by my mother.