Of Mice And Men
Warning: be careful of the Google when typing in mouse, mice, trap, or mouse control. You would think I'd have landed on some reputable rodent killing sites or perhaps the odd computer geek site, but no, surprisingly not. Apparently, when someone asks if you've clicked your mouse lately, they are referring to you er, lady parts.
I was educated. But not in rodent control.
Finally, with some luck and some perseverance, I found what I needed to know. Now it was for supplies. After walking into one of the big box hardware stores, I was stunned. I stared at row after row of pest control. Who knew there were so many ways to off a furry little mammal. I wasn't sure if I was up to this.
Poison was out, because with my luck my nephew, the Worm, or Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. would find it and eat it, thereby poisoning themselves, leaving me with untold amounts of guilt, a dead loved one and still a mouse in my house. (Still sounds dirty when I type it, hee hee.)
Those damn sticky tabs where the mouse walks on them and is stuck, starving to death just freak me out. Back in the days of my youth, when I managed a movie theatre to pay for school, we had an exterminator come in once a month for pest control. Those sticky tabs were his weapon of choice. At the time I thought they were cool, until I came upon one, with a mouse attached. Poor thing had ripped off his face in his attempt to free himself. It was an image I could live with out and have no need of experiencing again.
As I sat there, baffled and bewildered by all the choices before me, I was beginning to feel overwhelmed. I shook myself out of my moment of self-pity and reminded myself that there were vermin living in my NEW home; vermin carrying all types of disease and filth. I may call myself a redneck, but I am a clean freak redneck. No mouse is going to tarnish that image.
I had visions of getting out the hubs gun and going Rambo on his furry little ass. But then I remembered reading this article and decided to leave the guns locked up in the gun safe. With my luck, I'd do worse than that dumb ass Donald did. If only I were blessed with my sister's aptitude for rodent execution. She has a gift for being able to off the furry little creatures with out even trying.
It all started when she was eight years old and trying to clean her gerbil cage. She put both her precious pets in a bucket while she cleaned the cage. The little buggers managed to climb out of the bucket and scurry away in a mad dash for freedom. She yelled for me to come help, and me being the darling 11 year old I was, moseyed along, not terribly concerned by the panic in her voice. I happened upon her just in time to see her trip on her socks (which weren't pulled up properly) and land on her knees. With one gerbil under each knee. Twitching. She was horrified and I couldn't stop laughing. I still smile when I remember that image...hee hee.
Alas, that wasn't a gift I inherited. I was going to have to do this the old fashioned way. But I knew that with a regular mouse trap, there would be problems. I'd live in fear of hearing that dreaded 'Snap!' as it crushed the neck of some unsuspecting mouse. There would be no way I could bring myself to dispose of the carcass, and I don't think I'd be able to bribe my chitlens to do it for me.
That left me with only one option. The mouse house. (I can see my husband rolling his eyeballs now.) The little critter can mosey on in, and voila! Problem solved. It will be like a science project for Fric and Frac. They will have an up close opportunity to study some wild life, before I drop him off at the
Forty smackers later, and I was the proud owner of my first mouse trap. Now the battle begins. It is on, little mouse. Our own little version of Patriot Games.
Bring it little rat, let's see who wins.