Tikos

Eliza and I had a mouse problem for months. Hatred hath no bounds when it comes to how I feel about these devils.

Anna, a fellow ETA, affectionately calls them tikos due to their large behinds and complete lack of inhibition when it comes to shaking said behinds while sauntering around the house. From this point forward, I will refer to them as tikos, the saucy name they deserve.

We tried everything. We tried traps, taping doors, stuffing towels into cracks, wearing ear plugs to sleep through their ruckus each night, and setting aside a portion of all of our food as an assumed ritual sacrifice to the tikos.

Finally, finally, Pak Gi, Eliza’s counterpart, comes to set up a trap.

The trap works on the very first night. We catch one. Better yet, the trap is large and humane. My only responsibility is to then take the mouse and cage far from the house and release it.

The mouse very clearly seems displeased about his inability to steal my bananas and relocate my possessions from within the cage.

(Did you know mice move things? They do. Once, one actually took a different mouse trap we were trying out to the sewer. No joke. If tikos ain’t happy [with the interior decorating], ain’t nobody happy, and he will rearrange to his liking.)

I take the caged mouse outside. Dangling the cage from the right handlebar of my bike, I peddle the mouse farther and farther from home, hoping to confuse him into not returning.

The once disgruntled mouse begins to change. His face lifts, and he begins sniffing around. He is unmistakable enjoying the bike ride.

We stop. I’m exasperated. I open the cage to bid good riddance.

He sniffs the opening. Then, he waltzes back into the cage and looks from me to the bike. Then, he sits in his tikos-sitting way.

I gape. My tikos is so comfortable with my presence and enjoying the joy ride so much that he is indisputably telling me to get back on the bike and take him for another spin.