Jonathan Meyer.

I don’t like mice. Never have, never will. While my experiences go way back to when I was a wee boy, not much has changed.

I couldn’t have been more than ten years old when, after many years of hard work and service, we decided to replace our cherished four-slice toaster. It was on the outs, and I’m sure some too-good-to-pass-up deal caught our attention at the store. Seeing as we had an old toaster to get rid of, I was offered the opportunity of a lifetime: I could hit it with a baseball bat.

While not the first thing you think about, striking a household appliance with a bat is an oddly rewarding experience.

Once I had the green light, I went outside, grabbed the toaster from next to the trash can, and set it carefully on the rim. I was never a great athlete, but I knew I needed to line up my shot decently well.

After a few swings and giggles — the kind that make you feel like you’re doing something you’re not supposed to — I went for another strike. This time, it was different.

Out popped a light-colored field mouse.

It was a little guy, but the fact that anything came out of my toaster scared me beyond belief. Completely thrown off balance, I stripped down to my underwear in the front yard and promptly began crying and screaming. I’m sure my neighbors loved our family.

Safe to say, I didn’t handle that situation very well.

A few years later, when I was a young eighteen-year-old kid, I had another run-in with mice. This time, it wasn’t a surprise popping out of a toaster, our house had been fully compromised and breached by a band of tiny rodents.

I remember hearing scratching sounds from underneath the cabinets, the kind you can’t un-hear once you notice them. Maybe we should’ve gotten a cat? That would’ve taken too long. This felt urgent, and in my mind, it also felt like something that needed immediate attention. I decided I had to become an amateur exterminator.

On Black Friday that year, while most people were chasing fantastic deals, I found myself standing in the traps-and-bait aisle instead. It wasn’t exactly how I envisioned spending the day, but it felt necessary.

Even after catching one, I still didn’t feel safe in my own house. Strange sounds and small signs convinced me there were more. One night, fully convinced the mice had won, I slept in my mom’s SUV in the garage. It was a strange sort of camping experience, one that ended with her coming out to tell me I was being ridiculous.

Eventually, I captured and took care of all of our unwanted visitors. I never figured out how they got inside, but they haven’t been back since.

At ten years old, these creatures sent me running across the yard in my underwear. At eighteen, it sent me to sleep in a car. You’re going to love what happens next! Next week I’ll get into my most recent encounter.

Until next week, I’m still scared of mice, and Just Jonathan!