Joyce Butler is a legal assistant who writes short fiction from the heart. Her love of life and people is the basis for her stories which range from nostalgia to humor to faith – and everything in between.
Mighty Mouse – that miniature flying mouse of might and morals; that invulnerable, invincible, incorruptible caped crusader – I loved him! At age five or six, when I heard his theme song, “Here I come to save the day!” I was completely his, transported into Mighty Mouse’s next adventure.
One night, I was awakened to my parents, chasing a mouse. Not violent people during the day, my parents became big game hunters of the worse kind after dark. Mom grabbed the broom and Dad grabbed a trash can and the dust mop.
In pink flannel gown and tan flannel pajamas, the hunt began. Nibbling on cheese taken from a trap was the target. Before Dad was ready, that woman of rodent fighting renown swatted that mouse and – missed. It had to have been Mighty Mouse because he FLEW – FLEW, I tell you across the kitchen and took off running across the floor through the partially opened door of my bedroom.
Mom was so startled that she stopped for a second. Dad seemed to traverse through solid matter as he entered my room on the tail of that terrible, tiny, tenacious creature. He made a fierce swat with the dust mop, confident he had been the victor in that chase and kill episode. Instantly Mom wanted to see the trophy. Proudly, Dad lifted the mop – no mouse. Looking everywhere for that mouse, which had hidden in the dust mop, Dad put the mop on my bed. Then that beady-eyed bit of repulsive rodent sauntered right up the middle of my bed! Mom began to beat the bed. I started screaming. Dad started beating the bed. The mouse turned and FLEW, I tell you he FLEW, across my bedroom.
Mom and Dad managed to simultaneously squeeze through the doorway. Dad took the lead. Dad and Mighty Mouse reached the living room at the same time. Dad slammed the trash can (which he had carried during the entire chase) over the mouse. With mouse in can, they went outside and discussed the method of disposal. Why Dad did what he did next, I will never know. He turned the mouse onto the ground and stomped it. Well, he stomped at it. It ran up Dad’s pajama leg. This quiet spoken, six foot two inch, two hundred twenty-five pound, reader of comics jumped, kicked, hopped on one leg, and cussed until Mighty Mouse, carrying Dad’s right house slipper, FLEW – I tell you FLEW through the air to the top of the house – right into the television antenna pole. Dad sat down in the front yard, gasping for air. Mom was speechless. There was complete silence.
Pointing at me, Dad puffed, “Looks like you’re going to have to get my shoe.” Dad lifted me up. Mighty Mouse lay still. I reached to pick up the shoe. He leaped up. I fell backward, bounced off Dad, landed on the sidewalk, and broke my arm.
I hate Mighty Mouse.