The Mice is Right
How was my winter vacation? Relaxing. Leisurely. I hung out, played “Guitar Hero 3,” and saw a few movies (at some point I’ll probably write about how much I hated the trying-way-too-hard and not-at-all-funny Juno). I also dealt with the dreaded, if not unexpected, return of mice to my home.
You know you have mice the day they drop anchor in your home. They’re little shit factories. They can’t scurry a half a foot without leaving their calling cards. I found the calling cards by the wall in my family room. In the pantry. Under the T.V. Pretty much everywhere on the main floor of my home that I consider sacred.
The immediate plan, obviously, was to destroy them. I called my pest control expert. He laid bait stations, snap traps, and issued a stern warning to potential mice saying they should stay away. Unfortunately, the mice confounded my pest control expert. They wouldn’t take the bait … the delicious, tastes like birdseed and dog food, poison that sends their little bodies on a quick ride to rodent oblivion. Or “roblivion,” if you prefer.
They eluded the well-peanut buttered snap traps, not once stepping foot onto the plywood spine-snappers. Droppings traced the areas near both the poison centers and traps. It was like I was being taunted. The mice weren’t so much avoiding their doom as they were mocking me.
With reluctance, I laid glue traps out. For some reason, the sight of a dead-on-contact mouse is more appealing to me than that of a mouse welded to cardboard, forced to contemplate its slow exit from this world. But then, the sight of mouse turds next to my Ritz crackers was even worse. Bring on the glue traps.
Within an hour of laying a glue trap down by the fridge, I caught one. He was flinching and twitching and giving me every reason to either throw up or call up any of my more manly friends to help. There wasn’t time for that. The mouse had to go. With a broom and a shovel, I scooped him into a Hefty bag and tossed him in my trashcan in the alley, fast-tracking him to a miserable death by suffocation.
I haven’t seen any droppings since. I want to believe that this mouse was working alone, a Lee Harvey Oswald mouse with the survival instincts of Jason Bourne. History has shown that mice don’t fly solo. I’m going to cling to the hope that they do as I enjoy a slice of cheddar cheese on my Ritz tonight.