A mole took up residence in my basement.

A dead mole.

Or mouse. A dark gray and blue furriness that looks like my dog’s toy is curled up on the concrete near the washing machine and dryer.

Not moving.

Reminds me of the feminist refrain: “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.” I need a man to carry the critter outside. I look around the basement. There’s no man.

I remind myself that I fixed the belt on the vacuum cleaner after reading the instructions. Released the vacuum guts and replace the worn belt. It works great. I hauled 180 pounds of rocks (not all at once) for my garden, painted the front of my house, and refused to panic when the check engine light illuminated the dashboard on my Jeep.

I bought my first house—by myself—at age 25, and, years later, after my divorce, travelled solo to Hawaii. In my fifties I learned to surf.

So I guess I can carry a dead critter outside without finding a man.