of mice and mechanics

So, this morning, I climb into my six-month old Kia Sportage, and it’s having trouble starting. I rev it like a grandma going through a store front window, but it simply doesn’t want to stay running. It’s fighting me.

Now, I know just enough about cars to be dangerous, as they tend to say. If there’s an issue with your car starting, it always boils down to two things: no fuel or no fire.

This here was a fuel problem of a great, great, mountainous issue. But, could I two-foot drive it to the dealership? Would I make it?

Nothing like giving it the old college try. So, I drive it down my hill like a stick-shift whore and finally roll it into the service bay of the dealership around 8.

Johnny—the service guy I’ve seen a number of times for oil changes, etc.—looks at my quizically. I say, “I don’t have an appointment; I have an emergency.”

I tell him the story. He says, “Weird.” Pops the hood. Messes around with some hoses. Gets in. Starts it. It dies. He says, “Weird.”

He takes the car and sends me off to work with their little shuttle service. I get a call about 2. He says, “Mice.”

I say, “Eh?”

“Mice. They chewed through a minor fuel hose. Mechanic says they must have been living up in your car for at least a few days.”

Wow. Mice. I haven’t had that sort of issue since living at the farm . . . then, it was somewhat of a normal occurence, actually. Mice. Kittens. Snakes. It’s amazing the menagerie that can live under your hood.

The Farm! I was there just over a week ago.

On the way home from the dealership, I called my stepdad, told him the story. He jokingly said, “I don’t believe it. If you want 90 bucks from me, girl, you’d better bring proof.”

That’s my dad. (wink)