I was walking into my bedroom the other day, just getting ready to rush off to work, when I realized I didn't know why I was walking into my bedroom.

It was one of those deals where you go to get something and forget what you were doing and why right in the middle of it.

It would seem that my thoughts are at constant war with one another and my purpose and actions are the innocent refugees wondering which side will be victorious and running helplessly amok nonetheless. In other words, I usually find myself doing one thing and thinking another or even doing nothing while wondering what I should be thinking.

While this is great for such mundane and monotonous activities as mowing the yard and washing dishes, it is not so great other times. Like when you are just about late for work and you end up walking into the bedroom and saying to yourself, "Why the heck am I in here?"

Once I walked out of the bedroom and into the living room, I remembered why I was in the bedroom at last. It's not always that easy.

Sometimes I end up walking around all day wondering what I forgot about, until ultimately I forget the fact that I forgot something. Sad isn't it?

In this case, I needed my glasses, which were right where I left them beside the bed.

Next problem, please.

So I go don my glasses and start to walk out to the car when I get that sinking sensation again.

Ignoring it, I climb into the car, only to realize that I don't have my car keys. Foiled again.

You know, you should probably never ignore the feeling you get when you think you left the stove-eye on or possibly left the water running or the bathroom light on or.... You get the picture.

But if I didn't ignore that feeling once in a while, I would never get out of the house.

I would just end up wandering aimlessly while checking to see if my tap was still on or my radio was still playing somewhere in the background. At least I have an excuse - this is a hereditary problem for me. My father is the most complete man I have ever met. For a matter of fact, he can drive you completely crazy with his complete-ness.

I can remember looking at my parents in a much different light as an all-knowing youth. For some reason, the ignorance of youth leads us to believe that we are geniuses, at least until the hard slap of reality strikes you across the face.

The first slap is always the hardest. Soon, after you've been slapped around enough, you start to realize that, not only do you no longer think you are smarter than your parents, you have become the "dumb" parent.

Time marches on, I suppose.

But as for my father, before leaving the house, he checks all the faucets, all the doors, all the lights, makes sure the toilet isn't running and then as he walks out, he checks again to make sure the door is locked. Sometimes on the way to the car, he decides to go back and do it all again.

I was acting in a similar fashion when a friend of mine told me that I might have an obsessive-compulsive disorder. Ah, phooey, I said.

The little oddities in life are what make us all interesting, I explained as I walked back to wash my hands for the fifth consecutive time and then walked outside and returned to make sure my door was locked.

It's just one of those things.

So my friend, being the conscientious sort, offered me the card of Dr. John Q. Psychiatrist. From my experience in life, often the counselors and psychiatrists are actually crazier than the people they are helping.

I remember hearing a story once about a fellow who went into the shrink's office making engine sounds and riding an imaginary motorcycle. He asked the doctor where he should park his bike and the guy said to him, "Just pull it over there next to mine."

Of course the doc was pointing toward a potted plant or something, but that little story has always struck me as funny for some reason. There most certainly is a wide band of behavior that our society dictates is normal.

Sometimes I am on the outer limits of normality, but I think for the most part I remain within those confines.

Except for the other day.

I went over to check on my place in Virginia last weekend when I found a mouse in my cupboard.

He had gotten in there somehow and got trapped when someone shut the door on him.

It was a sad day to be a mouse, let me tell you.

I caught the little rascal under a see-through glass bowl and slid the bowl off on a little plastic plate.

Bad idea. If this little guy can eat wood, he'll just laugh his way through plastic, I thought.

So I slid the bowl, reluctant mouse inside, over on a ceramic dish. Now, I can see the little guy under the bowl with his big black eyes looking up at me all pitiful like.

While I enjoy hunting and fishing and I don't think it is wrong to kill animals for food, I would have had a hard time killing that suddenly-sweet little rodent. Isn't it odd that the animal was the devil himself while he was having a good time munching on my grub, but once I had it caught, it didn't seem so bad anymore.

But for some reason, this terrified little mouse - the same little mouse that took a crap in my silverware drawer and then played hop-scotch in my light bread - garnered my sympathy. If the mouse was dead or caught in a trap, it wouldn't have been so bad, but with it looking up at me...

Light bread and silverware aren't the most important things in life, but when the bread looks like Swiss cheese and the forks, knives and spoons have you-know-what on them, it kind of ruins an appetite. Not to mention the fact that you have to wash everything in the house every time you want to eat.

Since I have to eat in order to survive and hate to wash dishes with you-know-what on them, I put the mouse in a 5-gallon bucket with grass in it.

I know this sounds crazy.

Then I put the mouse in my truck and drove out to a boat landing near the river and let him go.

The mouse wasn't even a little reluctant to get out of the bucket alive and as I watched him scamper off into the grass on his way back to my house, I got another one of those slaps.

Maybe I am crazy, I thought to myself as I laughed out loud. Maybe it's not so bad.

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