*****
It began just as I’d started to pick up speed. I’m in my car, and I’ve gotten maybe five houses down the street on a very rainy day.
I’m not quite late for work, but I’ve got no time to waste.
It was then that I saw something…well, brown. Something that seemed to drift across the top of the windshield. Strange, to encounter a dried, blowing leaf, since it’s been so wet here.
Maybe a low-flying bird, just skimming my field of vision? Robins have a habit of swooping low, which always freaks me out when I’m driving. But no. I don’t think so.

Curious, and slightly unnerved, I pull into the nearest driveway and stop. And that’s when I see it.

A tiny face, staring back at me through the windshield, with the large, stricken eyes of a frightened animal.
Blink. Blink, blink.
I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned once or twice that I have an irrational fear of mice.
So what’s peering through the glass, looking right back at me?
Of course. It’s a mouse.

Despite my gut reaction that said, OH MY DEAR GOD, GET THE DAMN THING OFF MY CAR, I also have an aversion to killing living things if it can be avoided.
Yes, I am that kind of idiot. And the poor little varmint didn’t plan any of this. It must have a brain the size of a lima bean. So I slip the car easily into reverse, sure the critter will take the hint and run.

It scoots over and perches on the driver’s side mirror.
Shit.
Working with a bad back and hip, climbing over the console and passenger’s seat isn’t going to be an option here. Maybe if the poor thing sees familiar surroundings, it’ll get off. And I really need to get going, or I’ll be late for work So yes, I drive very slowly back into my driveway, and stop.
The mouse? He settles in. Mickey is cruising the road.

I have a long driveway. I try a little speed in reverse, then a jarring, brake-ridden ride back up.
Mouse is hanging ten. Lucky me, I’ve picked up a bronco-riding rodent.
Shit.
I try it again. Faster. I swear, if the damn thing had long hair, it would’ve been streaming behind him in the breeze. The only thing he was missing was a pair of Foster Grants. Am now definitely late.
What to do? If I open the driver’s door or window, he might make it inside—and how will I explain things to EMS when the stroke I’ve had has robbed me of the ability to speak?
Shit.

I start banging on the window with the flat of my hand. No response. I think I see a twitch of his tail. Like he’s laughing at me.
“Yo!” I slap the glass repeatedly. “Dude! Get off the damn car!”
Twitch.
Shit.

Visions of flying down the freeway at top speed until the little rat bastard is peeled off dance through my head. But I can’t do it. Hell. Definitely late for work.

I blow the horn.
Twitch.
Shit.
I’m ready to scream. Little Cujo is holding me prisoner in my own car.

I tell myself I’m a rational being. I can beat this. I have tools in the trunk, and that makes me snicker. The first glimmer of insanity. I’m losing it. Nail file? Lost it two weeks ago. Gun? In my bedroom. No one’s home next door. Dammit, why can’t it rain cheese when a girl needs a break?

FINALLY, my uber-superior human intellect kicks in. Car repair bill in glove compartment. By sliding it through a bare slit in the window, so fine it would barely pass a strand of hair, I was able to give my little hitchhiker a nudge.
And with a prodigious leap, he ran for safety. Or a beer and a good laugh. I’m not sure which.

I’m thinking that, sometime this week, I may actually risk driving the car with the windows down, just like I used to, back in the day.
We’ll see. Maybe.
I’ll let you know how it goes.