Everybody’s heard of Schrödinger’s cat. But did you ever hear of Schrödinger’s mouse? Me neither, but rest assured, there is a mouse in the picture below. And much like Schrödinger’s cat, he’s in a box. But unlike the average cat, however, he really wasn’t terribly happy about it.
Let me back up a little bit.
Last weekend, Jennifer and I became aware that our household had gained an uninvited member. A peach left to ripen on the kitchen counter mysteriously acquired three not-so-tiny bite marks. Shortly thereafter, we began to notice other evidence of a small creature living within our midst, including a scat-trail of tiny poops demarcating a path along the backsplash of the kitchen counter, behind the microwave oven, out of sight. Oh no, we said. We’ve got a mouse.
So on Wednesday morning, I picked up a package of Victor Live Catch mousetraps at the local hardware store. Live Catch, because I didn’t want to deal with the horrors of spring-loaded, poisonous, or gluey traps (and I figured getting a rodent to cooperate with the Ideal board game was probably a bit too optimistic). I brought the traps home, baited them with peanut butter, and set them along the mouse’s usual route. We went about the rest of our day.
That night, as we were sitting in the living room reading, we heard the plastic clatter of one of the traps. We had a captive.
Jennifer and I sauntered into the kitchen, with Maddie cautiously following behind. There, on the counter, one of the two traps rocked and bucked as the mouse inside attempted to kick his way back out.
“Now what?” asked Jennifer, and it dawned on me that we hadn’t thought this mousetrap business through completely.
“I guess we transfer him to a box, then drive him up to the park and let him go,” I suggested. The trap bucked again. I snapped the above picture with my phone.
“What kind of box?” asked Jennifer.
“A tall one. I understand these little buggers can jump.”
We searched the house, keeping an eye on the mousetrap, and soon, Jennifer had found a tall shoebox that seemed more than adequate for the task at hand. I picked up the trap, held it over the box, and then triggered the door open, dropping the little guy into the shoebox.
He was small, maybe an inch from nose to rump, with another inch of tail, and red-brown, with shiny black eyes and a pink, twitching nose. He stared up at us from the bottom of the shoebox.
“He’s just so… cute!” exclaimed Jennifer. “Do you think he can get out of there?”
“Naah,” I shrugged. “He’s too small. I doubt he can jump that high.” Such hubris.
“What are we going to do?”
“I’m going to take his picture.” I tilted the box toward me a bit to catch the light, then held my phone above the opening. “Smile, you little bugger,” I said.
He didn’t smile. Instead, he bounced. Then, he hopped. Then, he bounced again. “What in the world are you up to, little guy?” I wondered aloud.
And then, he jumped. And the world shifted into slow-motion.
The mouse flew toward my face, a blur of teeth and claws and twitching nose. Jennifer shrieked. Maddie barked. The mouse Kung-Fu kicked me in the cheek, then skittered down my chest toward the kitchen floor. He ran across the floor, then disappeared into a previously-unseen crack along the base of our kitchen cabinet.
“Brilliant,” said Jennifer.
“That was… unexpected,” I said. Maddie looked on, puzzled. I stroked my chin. “Think he’ll fall for it a second time?”
We haven’t seen the mouse since. The traps are still set and baited. They’ve triggered a few times since Wednesday night, but so far, all have been false alarms. The wind, the vibration of a drawer, a truck driving past. Still, upon noticing a closed mousetrap, I can’t help but think of Erwin Schrödinger’s most famous experiment. Mouse, or no mouse?
The mouse may be gone. He may have packed his little mouse suitcases and headed off for the countryside, away from the crazy humans determined to drop him into a box and offer him a one-way trip to the park. Or he may be hiding, waiting for the excitement to cool down before making another attempt at that delicious peanut butter. Or he’s plotting against us, planning his revenge. Maybe I shouldn’t dwell on that possibility.
So, what do you think? Do we still have a mouse or not?
—
In January, Night Shade Books is publishing Phil and Kaja Foglio’s Agatha H and the Airship City, the first in a series of novels retelling the events of their award-winning webcomic, Girl Genius. If you’re not familiar with the world of Girl Genius, it’s a “gaslight fantasy,” chock full of mad science, mechanical marvels, and monsters, coupled with Borscht-Belt comedy (and occasionally, below-the-Borscht-Belt comedy), and featuring a plucky heroine who spends much of her time in Victorian undergarments. Call it steampunk burlesque. Or better yet, hop on over to the Girl Genius website and experience it for yourself.
And Phil and the fine folks at Studio Foglio/Airship Entertainment (particularly Alice, who packed the box) were kind enough to send a few sets of the Girl Genius graphic novels to the NSB offices, so I’ve spent the last few nights re-reading the series, often laughing out loud, and really appreciating the subtle difference between print comics and the web. This series is incredible, hilarious fun, and I can’t recommend it highly enough.
So tell them thanks, Maddie.
“Thanks for the books, Phil Foglio,” says Maddie. “We really like ’em. ‘specially the Jägermonsters. They’re funny.”
