the cheese stands alone

Firsts. Hmm. Lots of firsts in the past week. First risotto last week, first hockey game on the Farm pond tonight and first trapped mouse in my new cabin. The first two events were far more lovely than the last. It is times like these when you think, I really need a boy here now to get this damn mouse of the house…or anyone braver than me really!

Upon moving in I found evidence of a mouse. I got proactive and bought sticky traps. I can already hear people saying, “but that’s mean, that draws it out!” Well, too damn bad, I say. I can’t stand the sight of snapped in half twitching mice. Sticky traps, though possibly less humane, means my ability to not be found in the fetal position on my bed, crying over a disfigured mouse. 

So, I made two “traps,” taping sticky traps into boxes (easier disposal later—thinking ahead!) and tapped boxes to tile floors, in case the little bugger is a fighter. Good idea on my part because my first mouse was, in fact, he was the worst kind of sticky trap victim. Only a single paw was stuck. I thought it might be an act to lure me into a sense of safety so I shouted “BOO!” at it several times and jumped up and down on the floor (from a safe distance). Nope. Stuck. I almost felt a little sorry for him as he stared up at me with wild, bewildered, HUGE, BEADY black eyes.

So, I did what any SANE person would do. I got an old curtain rod—thankfully left behind by Farmer MacDonald—and tried to knock the box into a huge empty old ash can. FOILED and FREAKED OUT by the mouse who now, maybe knowing death might be near, began to panic! He actually grabbed the curtain rod with front paws and teeth and wouldn’t let go. It took about a minute of me shaking it to get it away from him, screaming just a little.

I managed to get the mouse on the trap, in the box, into the can (sounds like a sentence from a bizarre children’s book) and again did what any sane person would do; not being able to kill the damn thing, I put it outside, thinking hypothermia would be a relatively painless option. “He will just go to sleep,” I told myself. And yet, I myself couldn’t fall asleep. I felt like a villain, like the guy from The Tell Tale Heart, by Poe—hearing a little body, clad in sticky trap, dragging itself across my front stoop; scratching on my door.

I awoke this morning, feeler braver by the lightening of the sky and the knowledge that one of two things had happened while I slept: 1. my pest had died peacefully or 2. I would see the feral cat--who’s been hanging around my neck of the woods—run by with a sticky trap stuck to its face. (This second scenario more than amused me. It made me laugh like a lunatic for some time). It bolstered me as I mustered the ability to dump the box and its contents into a garbage bag and proceeded walking to work. 

Let’s just say I soon after discovered that the mouse was still alive and had to deal with it properly…ermmm…the only way I could.  

My hope for you in 2011? DON'T GET MICE!!


Mummy Dearest said…
ha ha ha... poor little stewart! ha ha ha...
I felt terrible. I kept thinking of him as Beverly Cleary's Ralph S. Mouse. Murderer Murderer!

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