To the untrained ear, it probably sounded like an ordinary Burl Ives kind of day. A Christmas CD played softly in the background. Hunkered down in our favorite reading chairs, sipping on cups of hot chai tea and contemplating the arctic blast outdoors, Jim and I practiced mirroring the relaxation techniques demonstrated by our cat. But soon this tranquil setting was interrupted by a foreign noise—and I don’t mean Celine Dion.

“What’s that sound?” I asked.

“Probably something you put in the dryer,” Jim guessed.

“No. It was more of a scratching sound. Kind of like—”

“Wait,” Jim interrupted. “I just heard it. It’s coming from somewhere up there!” He pointed to an opening nine feet above our den floor, a decorative space over our built-in entertainment center.

I gazed up to where he’d indicated. The artificial ivy I’d haphazardly stuffed inside a wicker basket and shoved into this remote cavity rustled. About that time our cat, who’d been doing her best throw pillow impersonation, came to life.

“A-a-a-a-ah! There it IS!” I screamed.

Peering down at me was a rodent of some sort. I studied its size and then with relief announced, “It’s just a little field mouse.” Edging in closer, I climbed a chair to get a better look. The startled visitor froze in place as I pulled to eye level with him.

Jim jumped to his feet and, displaying his usual compassion, remarked, “Get me my hammer.”

“What?” I cried. “Don’t you dare! Why, he’s nothing but a harmless Christmas mouse. He’s Stuart Little, for goodness sake. Come look at this cute fuzzy face,” I begged. “How could you even think of pounding this defenseless creature?”

“You’re right,” agreed my mate. “I’ll run to the store and get some traps.”

Upon hearing this, Stuart dashed into a crack that I wouldn’t have known existed had I not been standing on a bar stool (for the first time, I might add, in years).

It seems that our homebuilder had left a half-inch gap between the cabinetry surface and the drywall. Apparently this mouse had mistaken the opening as an invitation to tour our home.

“You are not going to kill this poor thing. I won’t let you do it.” I squared my shoulders and gave the mouse musher a stern look.

“Well, what, exactly, do you recommend?” he scoffed. “And before you say it, don’t even tell me you want to keep it for a pet.”

“Of course I don’t want to keep it for a pet. I’m going to trap it and return it to the outdoors, where it belongs.”

“Sure you are.”

Mr. Know-it-all sneered before retreating to another room.

I fired up my laptop computer and typed in “no kill mouse traps,” then hit the search button to see what might prevent Jim from any further urges to play whack-a-mouse. Sure enough, I found several descriptions of how to design a homemade trap, accompanied by instructions on what to do with these interlopers once they’ve been caught.

“Take the mouse at least one mile away before setting it loose,” several Web sites recommended. Like squirrels, field mice are so fiercely territorial that they have no problem duplicating The Incredible Journey. These creatures can, and do, return when they’re released too near their home origin.

Carefully following the instructions, I creased a cardboard insert from a toilet paper roll (to make part of the tube flat) and set a Ritz cracker slathered with peanut butter inside one of the open ends. Next, I balanced the tunnel to freedom on the ledge above the entertainment center. The tube precariously teetered above a two-foot tall, galvanized aluminum florist can. If all went as planned, the mouse would enter the chute, crawl out onto the opposite end to retrieve the cracker, and tip the cardboard cylinder. The victim would then perform a double-gainer into the canister, and if he was lucky, the treat would land shortly thereafter—peanut butter side up.

To insure that I could quickly retrieve the trap when it was triggered, I had positioned the flower bucket at the top of a stepladder. I expected to climb the ladder, throw a piece of aluminum foil over the container’s opening, and dart for my car, carrying the soon-to-be-relocated rodent.

About an hour later, the intruder stuck out his head and sniffed.

Hallelujah! It was working.

The mouse skittered across the ledge, but instead of entering the tube from the backside, he nudged underneath the trap in an attempt to dislodge the treat while maintaining his current position.

Great. I had an intellectual on my hands.

With this unexpected turn of events, the trap and the cracker dropped into the flower can. Stuart, however, did not. Instead, he leaned perilously over the cabinetry and appeared to be calculating his chances for survival should he leap.

Stealthily I climbed the ladder, lifted the pale, and opened one of the uppermost cabinet doors beneath the ledge to get a better aim at this crafty fellow. I would lure him into the can, if possible.

The mouse charged at me, full speed, and leapt onto the cabinetry trim. Now he was two inches from me at chest level. I screamed and tried to reverse down the ladder but discovered that the cat had followed me up the steps. Our normally sedate kitty was perched directly below my feet and ready for action. She bleated predator-like warnings at the moving object. Any second now, she would likely use my backside to launch herself closer to the toy of her dreams.

Stuart made a break for the open cabinet where I stored all of my old LPs, the vinyl remnants of my youth, the last tangible evidence that, yes, indeed, I had once been cool. I slammed the door shut, trapping the unwanted houseguest, confining him to spend time with the likes of Super Tramp and The Little River Band.

Jim wandered in to see what all of the ruckus was about. “He’s in there,” I explained, pointing to the sealed door, “with the music of my past.”

“You let him get in there!” he accused. “Why did you do that? How are you going to get him out, now?”

From the ladder I glared down at him. “Could you please just move this cat?”

“You know, I could fix this whole thing right now with my hammer,” he reminded.

“Look, if you want to be helpful, why don’t you just take these albums as I hand them down to you? He’s crawled behind them, somewhere.”

Reluctantly, Jim agreed—probably so he could stand there and make fun of me.

It wasn’t until I removed the final ten or so records that the field mouse lunged forward again, threatening to scale my torso.

Jim grabbed the flower bucket and, showing utmost restraint, refrained from using it as a mallet. The mouse leapt into the can. Finally, I had this little gray guy in my custody.

“Quick,” I yelled, taking possession of the prisoner. “Get some foil!”

After I’d secured the patty pot, I grabbed my car keys and a flashlight and sprinted to the garage. I was about a half mile down the road before I realized I was wearing only my house shoes and pajamas.

It was dark outside, and the temperatures were hovering somewhere in the low twenties. The florist container stood in the passenger seat next to me, and every once in a while I heard foil crinkle. Was my prisoner trying to make a break? What if he got loose inside my car? How would I find him? Better still, would my husband ever let me live this down? I could see myself serving tool duty for the rest of my life.

Outside the city limits, near a bridge, I pulled to the shoulder of the road. Here were plenty of trees and brush and a water source. Why, Stuart could not only find a nice home, but he could practically start his own subdivision. I opened the driver’s side door and retrieved the canister, noticing that it felt too light to be occupied. If there was a mouse in there, you’d have never known it.

My teeth chattered in the night air. I pulled my flannel top tight around my neck, attempting to block out the 25 mph wind gusts and feeling like an animal activist idiot.

Placing the container on its side, I removed the foil covering. Nothing. Not a sound. I shined the flashlight in a circle. No movement of any kind. Directing the beam into the bucket, I found only empty space.

This was a freakish nightmare, worse than watching the movie Ben! While I was standing out here on a country road in the dark with no coat and on the verge of frostbite, Houdini the Vermin was inside my running vehicle, conducting magic tricks from my heated leather seats. His hairy butt was mine!

I had been having a perfectly normal, sedentary Sunday until this thumb-sized nuisance had reared his rat-looking head. All I’d ever wanted was for him to return to his rightful home and to vacate mine, but NO-O-O. He had to go and make matters difficult. He had to put up resistance. This is the thanks I get for trying to save his stupid, short life! In my head I heard the music of the Sixties—Peter, Paul, and Mary, to be exact. And I knew right then what I’d do if I had a hammer!

I lifted the flower bucket and thought how best to use it when I next found Stuart.

Right as the canister cleared the ground, leaves rustled. I trained my flashlight on the direction of the sound just in time to see a mouse scurry beneath some twigs.

Mission accomplished.

“Did you set him loose?” Jim asked when I returned home.

“Yep.”

“You know, of course, that he’s going to freeze tonight ... that is, unless something eats him first.”

The following day, when I drove past the mouse release site, I noticed a sign that read, “Coming Soon! Estate Size Lots”. I couldn’t help but wonder how recently it had been erected.