It was like the slow motion in the movies where something takes but a fraction of a second but seems to drag on in horribleness. I’d reached into the drawer next to the sink for an extra towel without looking as I had a washed glass in the other. I’m not sure what part of your brain coordinates with your sense of touch but I knew immediately, without looking that what I had hold of was not a dish towel. I think I knew before turning to look, but I looked anyway-then I screamed because I had a field mouse in my hand. It took the poor frightened thing (the mouse, not me) a second to scurry out of my hand and back out over the back of the drawer. I’ve noticed that farm mice aren’t terribly shy of humans (I guess compared to the feral cats, we’re tame) and have a tendency, when surprised to look at you as though you’ve disturbed them. In this case, the little grey mouse had tucked itself in snugly between my dishtowels.
I washed the dishtowels and set traps. I hate this time of year when the corn comes down, and the mice come in. I washed my hand too. Blech.