He Was Dead When We Found Him

A couple of weeks ago I started smelling something rotten coming from the basement. It came on gradually and I noticed it getting a little stronger every time I went down there to do laundry. I’d recently lost and regained my sense of smell after I had Covid, so I thought it could be my nose playing tricks on me. But eventually the stink grew so powerful, it triggered a long forgotten memory from my childhood. It reminded me of the time we found a dead mouse inside our fold out couch.

It took some time to coax my husband down there to play ‘name that smell.’ He hates smelling things to validate my olfactory hypotheses on items like milk on the verge of expiration or bras from the hamper I think I can wear again.

He decided to indulge me this time and hallelujah, he smelled it too! He also agreed that it was probably a mouse or some other animal that died. I would have been happier if he hadn’t mentioned that second part. The thought of finding a dead mouse was very unsettling but the thought of finding a larger animal was absolutely terrifying!

Then we did what any rational person would do, we Googled it. Our search results said it takes ten days for a mouse to decompose and the smell will go away. In the meantime, they recommended some air fresheners. I bought the most powerful air fresheners they had at the store for ‘pet odors.’ Sure, okay, we’ll go with that.

It was weird going about our business pretending that we didn’t have a rotting animal corpse in our basement. I still smelled it faintly in the background. You can’t cover up the smell of death. It was like a citrus bouquet with a hint of mid-summer roadkill.

The ever-present smell, plus the knowledge that it was there wouldn’t let me rest, practically haunting my dreams. The denial stage didn’t last long, certainly not ten days.

I became so fed up, I charged downstairs to find the little stinker. I went over to the shelf against the wall where the smell was the strongest and low and behold there were maggots. Ironically, they were crawling on a box of firewood and I wanted to set the whole place on fire because ew!

Eventually we found him atop a storage shelf looking peaceful aside from the rigor mortis that made his tail stand up at an awkward angle.

We suited up for the job with rubber gloves and face masks. I pulled my hoodie over my hair and cinched the drawstring tight. I’m not sure why I thought it was necessary, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

I’d hold my breath, get about two feet away from the mouse, then chicken out. My husband would do the same and then we’d switch.

I wouldn’t admit it, but my biggest fear was that the mouse wasn’t actually dead. And the minute we got close, he’d reanimate like in a horror film.

“How much does it cost to get a professional to extract the mouse and clean it up?”

“Starts at $150, but that’s just for the consultation.”

We decided the least disgusting method was to put something over him and then slide something underneath him. I produced a red solo cup and a dustpan, then handed them to my husband.

“If I do this, you have to clean the shelf where he died,” he said.

It was a deal.

He bravely scooped up the critter and threw him into the trash, which was immediately put out on the curb for pickup. I did my part to clean up the shelf, finding little tufts of fur stuck to the wood, but the whole mess was thankfully pretty dry.

In the end I felt sorry for the little guy. He was only looking for a warm place to stay and some cheese. I can certainly relate.

Not to get too philosophical, but forget the rat race. Aren’t we all just confused little mice living and dying in someone’s basement until the gloved hand of god throws us in the trash?