Die, you stupid mouse. Die.

1987: We were hurrying through an Irish downpour rain.  Three children in the car crying, “The movie starts in five minutes…”  Tears and desperation flowed.  Down my face. 

A parking place, had to find a parking place.  Dammit.  There’s one, but it’s a tight one, and I’ll have to parallel park with traffic behind me.  “Quiet, kids, let me get parked.”  Lord, help me!  I hate parallel parking…

Zip, Zang, and I was in the spot.  Perfect.  The kids leapt out the passenger side onto the concrete.  Me?  I had to crawl out into traffic, where a river rampaged down the gutter, and cars sprayed me. 

On a pelting run, we made it to the ticket window, and paid the snotty teenager who said, “Movie’s already started, ya’ know…”  Pushing the kids ahead of me, I whispered all sorts of mild profanity in response to the teenager.  

We found our friends and settled into watching “The American Tail”.  A poor Eastern European family of mice were emigrating to America.  They got separated, with poor #@^& boy, Fievel, trying to find his way back to the family.  Fievel was befriended by unlikely carnivores, chased by likely carnivores.

The key song, “Somewhere Out There” is sung as a duet, with Fievel in one part of the city and his saccharine sweet sister in the other.  My mood softened a little, but not enough.

 

I watched the movie with a jaundiced eye.  A cynical heart.  Still cold and wet from my traffic shower bath, I saw that mouse, @*#% Fievel, escape certain death time and time again.

 

Inevitable reunion ended the movie with music swelling and my kids laughing happily.  All I could think was, “Why didn’t they kill that #@$* mouse?”

 

Fast forward to 2012:  I still think that Fievel should have bit the dust in the first 30 minutes.  The sister would have made a much better lead.  Fievel didn't have a brain in his mouse head, or an ounce of common sense in his furry mouse body. His survival was a matter of luck.