Two such times that immediately come to mind are when a possum is living in one of your garbage cans and a mouse is making itself at home in your living room.
While I am strongly in favor of equal rights for women, I don’t think God intended for me to kill my own critters. That falls under the category of “duties of the husband” in our marriage.
Zac always rises to the challenge, although his extermination techniques might raise a few eyebrows.
Shortly after we moved into the house five years ago, we were joined by our first field mouse.
One afternoon it made the mistake of streaking across the living room floor while Zac was lounging on the couch. Quick-thinker that my husband is, he grabbed an empty drinking glass off the coffee table and swiftly brought it down on Mickey’s head.
About a week ago, I was in the bathroom when I started hearing strange noises coming from the kitchen.
I investigated, but nothing seemed amiss during the minute or so that I stood in the doorway.
I hoped that I had been the victim of an overactive imagination and returned to the bathroom to wrap up my late night potty break.
But as I sat down, I heard the unmistakable pitter patter of rodent feet coming from underneath the bathroom sink.
I ran through the house and practically jerked Zac out of bed. There was no sign of our unwelcome visitor when Zac followed me to the bathroom and bravely opened the cabinets.
A couple of nights later, the mouse caught me alone again. Wyatt was tucked snugly in his bed, and Zac was dozing on the couch.
I had just kicked back in the recliner to do some light reading when I saw a shadow out of the corner of my eye. I looked over just in time to see the little furball scurry behind the couch.
I got my revenge later that week when I was trying to boil some tea.
The burning smell being emitted from the stove eye was so strong that Zac told me to turn it off and use another one.
I obliged and went to the sink to wash some dishes.
A few minutes later, the mouse emerged from a crack between the stove and the cabinet and dove through a hole in the wall where our dishwasher used to be.
Once we realized what the smell must have been, I hoped that I had charred him so badly that he wouldn’t dare bring his whiskers into the light of day again.
He was either fearless or dumb because he made one final appearance Thursday night while I was in the shower.
Zac poked his head in the bathroom door and said, “Stay in here.”
“Why?” I asked, more confused than frightened.
“I killed Mickey” came the muffled reply.
“Where?” I cried.
While playing Whack A Mole with a mouse is unique to say the least, it pales in comparison to bludgeoning a possum to death.
We thought stray dogs had been getting into our garbage a few months ago. Then Zac went outside one night to investigate sounds coming from near our trash cans.
“Come look at this,” he called a few seconds later.
I stepped onto the porch and peered over the railing into one of the cans. Two glowing eyes peered up at me.
I thought it was a puppy until Zac announced rather nonchalantly, “It’s a possum.”
I jumped back through the screen door and told him to get away from that thing before it attacked and gave one of us rabies.
After several mornings of having to pick up the trash strewn over our yard before he could go to work, Zac was ready to strangle the possum with his bare hands if necessary.
It must have sensed his anger and made itself scarce for a while. I had almost forgotten about him when Zac stood up one night and walked outside without saying a word.
“Took care of our possum problem,” he announced when he strode back in several minutes later.
I didn’t ask a lot of questions. All I know is I didn’t hear any sign of struggle and Zac said we wouldn’t be able to use that garbage can anymore.