The weekend before Christmas, I lay in bed and watched a tiny field mouse that had been in our bedroom wall gradually scrape its way out from a small gap under the door jamb. Of course I was horrified, but just like passing a car accident, you have to stare. The day before it squeezed itself out, I'd naively set a trap right next to the gap, confident that when Mouse eventually popped out, it would walk directly into the trap. This was not to be. Mouse slid out, and I watched, paralyzed, as it trotted right past the damned trap and into the dark hallway. I was expecting Tim to be home from work any minute, so I called his cell and screamed in a whisper, "It's innnn the houuuussssssse!"
As he came up the stairs, I directed him to shut Sam's door and get busy finding this evil intruder. We saw it dart through the shadows a couple of times, then go into the bathroom. Tim put the trap in the bathroom with him and shut the door. Obviously I could not fall asleep knowing Mouse was alive and kickin it mousy-style in the bathroom. Would he be trapped by morning or would he be waiting to attack me in the shower and eat my face off? A little while later, I thought I heard the trap, and Tim said (with a hint of condescension?), "Do you want me to go check?" Um. Well, let's see... if you care at all for my welfare and mental health, and protecting the mother of your child from face-eating vermin, you will get up and go check. Duh.
Tim was in the bathroom for a while. After hearing two flushes and contemplating if I should get the broom and swoop in for a hysterical rescue, he finally came back to bed. Apparently, Mouse was in the tub, cornered. Tim doused him with shampoo (the good stuff, not the Suave--sigh) and Mouse started to run around the tub. He quickly got sudsy and began sneezing. Have you ever heard a mouse sneeze? Tim threw a hand towel over him and flushed him. The second flush was just a pee. I questioned both the sanity and possible sanitation laws broken in flushing a mouse down the toilet, but he assured me that it was cool. Ew.
A few days passed and things were quiet. Last night we heard some distant scratching somewhere in the walls, but nothing nearby or alarming. I should tell you that while I have realized that mice are a normal part of life, that they get into every house eventually, both old and new, and that they are not generally a huge problem if kept under control and out of the food and living areas, I am still revolted by them and struggle with the thought that I might be a scumbag-trashy-dirty person with vermin in her house. Of course if a friend had the occasional winter time mouse problem I would never think that of them- we are our own worst critics. I think it's in part due to my blissfully unaware childhood. We either never had mice, or my parents never discussed them with me. I do remember my mom once saw a mouse near the door when we lived in Italy, and she had my grandmother chase it out the door and off the balcony. Splat! Bottom line is that until we moved into this house, my mouse credentials were rather thin.
Despite the relative quiet, I was having trouble falling asleep last night. Around midnight, I decided to try some warm milk (and one Benadryl, for sport). Went downstairs, and as I'm heading into the kitchen I saw an unmistakable silhouette scurry across the dining room floor and into the kitchen. I was barefoot. BAREFOOT. I'm never barefoot! I didn't scream, but my gasp was so sharp that it made me cough. I ran back upstairs and woke Tim. This was a disaster of enormous proportion. We both went back down and looked around. Didn't see anything. We laid a couple of glue traps and went to bed. I eventually fell asleep, comforted by the thought of getting a cat.
This morning there was nothing in the traps. Tim had already started using poison in the basement and repellents outside; he feels this particular mouse getting inside is a fluke and not a sign of infestation--but I'm not yet convinced. We went off to work. I wasn't very productive, and spent a good chunk of my morning worrying and chatting. I talked to coworkers and friends about it, and to my relief, everyone has a mouse story. And a bat story. And a chipmunk story. It does help me feel better - but I still want them all dead-diggidy-dead.
One of my coworkers, Cheryl, volunteers for the local humane society in her spare time and is very knowledgeable about animals, so I talked to her about a cat. I generally don't love cats, but last night I'd decided that I could learn to love one that keeps my house mouse free - in my opinion, the only way to have a symbiotic relationship with the Feline Freaks. I'm glad I asked her because now I know I don't want a cat to tackle this problem: If I did get lucky and adopted an effective predatory cat, it may actually EAT the mice it kills or eat PARTS of them! What?? Seriously?! I think my stomach virus just returned. And I thought cats eating mice was just Tom & Jerry fodder! Cheryl advised me that if I couldn't handle finding these 'presents' I should reconsider the cat solution...Yea, not only would I not be able to handle such gifts, but I would likely not stop screaming until they came to take me away. Thanks for preventing a tragedy, Cheryl!
She recommended traps - the old fashioned simple spring kind that kill instantly, Victor brand. Tim had looked at those, but ended up with some glue traps instead. She curled her nose and said she didn't like glue traps because it's awful to see the mouse stuck on the pad, and if you don't kill it yourself before you dispose of it, it dies from stress and starvation. That sounds fabulously appropriate to me. Don't mess with me, little f!&*!rs.
So I read up on the best ways to use traps. A common mistake is to not put out enough, even if just for one mouse. I felt prepared as I left work and headed straight to WalMart (I know, I know, but seriously, mice deserve only the best). I wanted to get some containers to protect my food items as well.
The Victor traps come four to a package for $1.87. I bought 48 traps. Best to be prepared. I also picked up some steel wool to close up any holes we might find.
While I was dumping the traps into my cart, two women, total strangers, approached me separately with advice. This was also a comfort. One woman had a brand new house with mice. She nodded approvingly at my containers and told me that she made her husband dispose of the bodies. The other complained about another brand of traps, how she made her brother check the traps, and wished me luck. Earlier, on the phone, my mother admitted that about a year ago, my father saw a mouse in the basement and she was horrified to find out that he didn't address it immediately. Women bonding over mice. And men. Chivalry may be long gone, but I still want Tim to protect me from mice. Do you, Timothy, vow to love, cherish and honor her, and also beat the veritable hell out of any mice near her, now and forever, until death do you part?
When I got home, I checked the glue traps again and found nothing. I spent the afternoon thoroughly checking my kitchen and food for evidence of mice, and thankfully, everything looks fine. My cupboards appear to be intact, with no apparent intrusions. I have yet to find droppings anywhere in the house, actually. As a precaution, I put grains, cereals, flours, and open packages of crackers and cookies into the canisters. Here is my awesome arsenal of traps and the containers I picked up for my cupboards:
I believe I might be starting to overcome the fear and turning it into determined rage. Rambo style. I might put on some war paint and a bandanna before I set out the bait. But you know Tim will follow up with the rest.
This past week Sam showed renewed interest in his Superman pajamas, or as he used to call them, his jamanas. I'm already missing sweet things he used to say when he was younger, and he's only 2.
