A Moose! A Moose!
Many years ago, perhaps twenty years ago, maybe more, Peter and I hired a Polish young lady to clean the house. She came from an agency. I had never gone through an agency and was a bit of a sceptic. I need not have worried. She was a lovely girl, very pleasant, very efficient and very capable. I could not understand why she was cleaning houses since she also had a Masters degree in business. She explained that in Poland her mother was a doctor. She was making more money cleaning houses in a week here than her mother earned in a month. She had come to New York to work and to save money. She was engaged and both her fiancé and herself had gone abroad to work since wages in Poland were not very high, to say the least. I was quite fond of Aga. Soon both Peter and I regarded her more as a daughter than as hired help.
One winter mid morning she came up to our bedroom. She was in a rather agitated state. “Please Mrs. Stella, there is a moose sitting in the middle of the dining room!”
I was curled up in the armchair deep into the book I was engrossed in. My ever faithful classical music was playing softly. I was in such a state of contentment. I looked up from the book that I was reading. “A moose?” I asked rather puzzled.
She shook her head. “Yes, a moose! She is sitting in the middle of the dining room!” she reiterated once more. Seeing that I did not understand, she took me by the hand and led me down into the dining room. And indeed there was a ‘moose’ sitting up on its haunches and basking in a sunny spot in the dining room. It was a field mouse who had sneaked into the house for some warmth. Moreover, I then realized the ‘moose’ was actually an audacious little mouse with no fear of humans.
“Aga, please get an empty jar and place the jar over this mouse,” I said.
Aga shook her head violently and said, “No I am not going to do that! I do not like mooses!” She hurried out of the room as fast as she could, before I would perhaps insist.
I do not like ‘mooses’ either and this on was undaunted by us humans. It was quite right not be afraid of us since we were two spineless females. What to do? What to do? My solution was to call Peter. Peter happened to be in the middle of a case in the Bronx. It also happened that at that very moment he was in the hallway outside the courtroom conferring with his client. When he answered, I explained my dilemma. “I am in court in the Bronx, in the middle of a case, Stella,” he said in an irritated to tone.
“Please Peter, please,” I begged.
“Ask Aga to put a jar over the mouse,” he said.
“She is not comfortable doing that,” I explained beginning to tear.
Peter relented. “Can you at least hit it with a long handled broom? Can you do that until I get home?” I answered with a very reluctant yes. “I am on my way,” he said.
I breathed a sigh of relief and went to get the long handled broom. Aga had been listening to the conversation. Somehow, our dog Max seemed to understand that something was afoot. Now that there was no danger of her having to deal with the mouse, Aga followed me back to the dining room, shadowed by Max. The mouse was still there, still sunning itself and it still seemed unfazed by us feeble minded females. I raised the broom and very bravely hit it several times. I was shaking. I felt like a cold blooded murderer. I paused. The mouse was lying on its back, not moving. I leaned slightly on the handle of the broomstick. I was shaking uncontrollably. Aga peered over my shoulders. Was she impressed by my bravery? Max must have sensed my fear for he edged close to me in a protective manner. He did not touch the mouse, which I am sure he very much wanted to do so. He just stayed by my side.
“Come, let’s leave. Mr. Peter is on his way. He will remove the mouse and then you may clean this room,” I told Aga. We all trouped out of the room, leaving the dead mouse lying prone on his back, arms and legs spread wide open. An hour or so later Peter got home.
“Okay, what is this fuss,” he said as he placed his files on the kitchen table, took off his overcoat and rubbed his hands together. I don’t know whether he did so from the cold or in anticipation of the gruesome task he was about to perform. I led him to where the mouse lay, but to my surprise, the mouse was not there! I must have just knocked him out. I had hit him with the broom part, not the wooden handle. When he came to he must have scampered away to safety.
Peter did not know whether to laugh or be angry. “I told the judge that I had a family crisis and asked him to please reschedule the case for the afternoon. What a fiasco you have led me through,” he said ruefully, without getting to annoyed. That’s why I love him so. He was never daunted by any of my escapades and never lost his temper!
The least I could do was offer this very galant gentleman a peck on the cheek and a spot of lunch, both of which he graciously accepted.
As for the ‘moose’? He must have made his escape to safety. As warm as the house was, being hit by a broom was not at all appealing to the safety and welfare of such a tiny creature!