What's the Scoop?

I found the mouse.

Well, it found me.

The cat behavior had returned to normal by the time I arrived at home after work. There had been not distressed and shrill calls from Hilary. No sign on the door from the kids saying they'd moved.  No flares sent up for help removing a carcass the size of one's thumb.

I assumed the little intruder had escaped what surely must have seemed like Jurassic Park and headed outside to the wild where he stood a fighting chance.

And then this morning, I try to be industrious.

I have to take the trash out, and decide it would be a most excellent idea to scoop the kitty litter "items" directly into the trash bag.  And to do so, I need to ascend and descend a few stairs, slotted scoop and doodads in hand a few times.  A balancing act for sure.

Let's not get ahead of ourselves; I did not take a spill carrying a fully loaded scoop of hooey. 

But I did bobble the scoop on my way back to the litter box, where it fell, against all odds, in the space between the stairs and the credenza that sits parallel to them.  Truly a stroke of luck. The space is barely wide enough for the scoop to fit into.  Lucky me.

I peer into the little space thinking I can wedge my arm in between the steps and the credenza and pick it up.

No.

My luck being what it is, my arm would fit, but I'd have to pick up the scoop by The Wrong End.

Eeewww. NFW.

So I have to go back up to the hallway, scrounge up a pair of flip flops (OK they weren't a pair by the strictest of definitions, but one of Pat's and one of Hil's. But this isn't exactly the red carpet, either) and trek into the creepy basement and go under the stairs to retrieve the scoop.

And thank God for the flip flops.

As soon as I turn the corner and duck under the steps into the darkness to reach under the credenza into the nest of dust bunnies to find the handle of the scoop, I step on Something.

Something soft. Something small. Something dead.

I know in an instant what it is. Or rather who it is. More accurately, who it was.

Completely wigging out, I grab the scoop, shake off the willies, and turn toward the carcass. Scoop in hand, I shovel the little lifeless thing into a nearby box lid.

And holding it out in front of myself like it might explode, I run back up the stairs, losing a flip flop on the way, and dump the little cadaver into the trash.

I turn to find that the cats are looking at me from the top of the stairs with the most curious expression. Like I've just thrown our their Little League trophy. 

Sorry girls.  Until one of us becomes a taxidermist, the dead things are not allowed to stay. 

I am sure both cats are plotting to catch another creature just to show me who's in charge. And I am sure this one will be found in my bedroom slipper.