Then the other Sunday when we sat down at Church of The Sunday Sofa, the smell was more piercing than normal. Was there a rotten apple somewhere? My husband got down on his knees and looked under the sofa. We lifted the rug. Nothing. So we sat back down and then it hit me and I knew without a shadow of a doubt: it was a dead mouse.
I leaped up and ripped the cushions off the beater couch. There, right under where I was sitting, was a tail. And attached to the tail was a very flat, very dead, partially fossilized mouse. I backed away and let the swat team take over.
Our sofa springs are lined with boards, some of which overlap. Apparently, one of us—who knows how long ago—sat down on a mouse who was trying to hide between two boards. Oops.
And that's how it came to be that I sat on a dead mouse in church.
Previously, Mouse Tales