I like Mickey Mouse. I like Jerry of “Tom and Jerry.” Heck, I like Mighty Mouse: “Here I come to save the day!” I write the Roaring Mouse, which is supposed to be the view from a Mouse in the corner. But there is a limit, and I will describe it and you can agree or disagree.

Thirteen years ago, I had surgery and had to stay in a bedroom downstairs. Thirty-five years ago, we built this house with the kitchen upstairs. But then my dumbwaiters, Will and Tom, went to college and it wasn’t long before I realized that this was a bad idea. When I couldn’t go upstairs, Bill brought my food down. One night in the light of the bathroom I awoke to find an adorable mouse with both paws hugging a fresh peach on my nightstand. His face was all into the peach. I yelled and he ran out through a tear in the window screen. I shut the window.

I came upstairs and sat to peel potatoes. A mouse wearing a Green Bay Packers shirt was on the counter. When I opened kitchen drawers, I found caches of rice, popcorn, cereal and many other products that has been brought mouthful by mouthful from the pantry to the drawers. I know Bill and his new pal were drinking, eating popcorn and watching football games, having a grand old time, but all I could think of was Hantavirus! I set a trap; Bill objected. I overruled. I emptied all—ALL—of my kitchen out and it took three weeks of bleach and tossing food. There became a new house rule. NO MICE for pets.

Five years later, my mother, Arlene, gave Bill a 10-pound bar of Hershey’s chocolate for Christmas. It was part of the Chocolate Wars, but that is another story. He put it in my art room and costume shop inside the house. That’s where I store costumes and props, and we don’t go in there very often unless I am directing a play. Three months later we were coming down the stairs and saw a tiny mouse come under the door. He staggered and fell, staging a death scene that Romeo and Juliet would have envied. When we opened the door, our tiny Mercutio had eaten one half of that 10-pound Hershey bar. No wonder he died.

Last week I woke up for my early breakfast. I have been a diabetic for 25 years and it helps my blood sugar. I normally have an apple and a stick of string cheese. When I turned the light on, again on my bedside table there was—OK, OK, he was a cute mouse—reaching for my apple. I screamed and woke up the 105-pound dog, Laddie, the 26-pound cat, Sir James, the 12-pound cat, Piwacket, and my husband Bill, weight unknown. I calmly said, “MOUSE IN MY BED.” All I got was fussing for waking them up. I offered each of the cats a tidy sum for a reward. More canned food would be forthcoming. Then I realized that increasing a cat’s food was contrary to my very purpose. “Why hunt when you can relax and eat from a can?”

No one has seen him since. He is like the “Mouse from Redwall” in literature. “Will no one rid me of this meddlesome mouse?” I can’t set traps or pellets with indoor animals. Please help me, I can’t toss out my entire kitchen again. Email me suggestions. I will sing your praises in the Roaring Mouse. Waiting for your advice. Out.