Now, before you reach for your mobile phones to start calling the police, let me clarify. The living beings I have been killing are mice.
This is the second infestation of mice we've had in the last six months. It's a matter of disagreement between my Dearly Beloved and I as to their origin: she insists that there's been a mice plague this year and the little buggers are sneaking into the house by the various devious ways known only to mice; whereas I am convinced that we've been transporting them to our house via the tons of stuff we've lugged from her mother's house now that her mum has moved into a retirement home. My conviction is sustained by the fact that mum-in-law lived on a semi-rural property with plenty of acreage and lots of long grass and sheds - in other words, all the things that mice love. And there has, in fact, been plenty of mouse-related activity at her house of late. Moreover, both appearances of mice in our humble abode have coincided with occasions when we have transported stuff from MIL's digs to ours. Until we started doing so, we had no trouble with mice at all; now we've had them twice in 12 months. QED.
But how, I hear you ask, have they ended up at casa nostra? Quite simply, the same way that mice stow away in ships' holds and planes' cargo bays and cars' luggage boots. On at least two occasions when we've carried things from MIL's place to ours, we've also carried mice, secreted away in whatever nooks and crannies mice can find in bags, containers, furnishings and fittings. And once at our place, they've fanned out to locate all the wall-spaces, skirting-board gaps, and hidden thoroughfares our little home has to offer.
So...we've had rodents in our nest, and it has fallen to Yours Truly to exterminate the unwelcome guests. Not that I volunteered for the job, you understand. It's just that my Dearly Beloved has been so catatonic with fear that I've simply had no choice.
Actually, catatonic is the wrong word. Hysterical would be a more accurate description. Except hysteria doesn't quite capture the paroxysms of screaming, jumping-on-the-furniture, climbing-up-the-walls frenzy that is evoked in my Dearly Beloved at even the hint of a suspicion that she's seen a mouse. Indeed, she doesn't need to actually see a mouse - just catching sight of a drift of dog hair wafting across the floor is enough to send her spiralling into a whirlpool of panic that makes an anxiety attack look like the acme of calm serenity.
No kidding, I always thought that old stereotype of women standing on the kitchen table and shrieking their lungs out at the first sign of a mouse was just a tired old sexist caricature from 50s TV shows. Little did I know that the spirit of Bewitched is alive and well in my life-partner!
Anyhoo, this little black duck has been stuck with the job of dealing with our unwelcome house guests. Not that I was anticipating much trouble. A few mouse traps, some bait, and WHAM! Dead mice, solved problem.
Not so fast, smart guy! No matter what I tried, I couldn't catch any mice. Which didn't mean the cunning little sods were staying away from the baits - they were stealing them without tripping the traps! Didn't matter what I tried - cheese, ham, peanut butter - the furry blighters were just waltzing up to the bait trays and swiping whatever was on offer. Smorgasbord for mice!
I was explaining all this to my brother and bemoaning the fate that had me encountering the world's first species of mice with an IQ, when he laughed and suggested I try Cheetos Cheese and Bacon Balls. I looked at him like he'd just turned into an alien who'd slipped through a crack in the space-time continuum and landed unexpectedly in my lounge-room; but he insisted that he'd had experience with the anti-rodent capacity of Cheetos and assured me of their efficacy.
Well, it's a
n understatement to say I was reluctant to try this proffered solution, especially since all my previous baits had been the result of "expert" advice from various people who assured me of the mouse-killing power of their favoured lure. But with the mice becoming so bold as to start making appearances while we were still awake, and with my Dearly Beloved's caterwauling becoming ever more ear-splitting as a consequence, I was desperate. So the next time I went within cooee of a store, I grabbed a bag of Cheetos and set my traps.Well, shut my mouth and stuff me full of chitlins if they didn't work a treat! Within 48 hours, every last one was defunctus est. And this has happened twice now: both times the mice have appeared the Cheetos have cleaned them up faster than you could say bubonic plague. I'd be sitting in the lounge watching the TV and there would be this distant snap followed by a quiet and short-lived thrashing. I'd wander over to one of the traps to discover a mouse wedged by the trap arm in the cold embrace of rodent death. No mouse could resist the Cheetos; no mouse could escape the fate held in store for them.
I'll confess that I was delighted with the results, not least because it put my Dearly Beloved at ease. But I'll also admit that there was an aspect of me that was anything but elated to be killing mice. As mice go, these guys I was slaughtering were actually handsome little chaps, with soft light brown fur and small dark eyes. I could see why mice feature so often as positive characters in children's literature; there was nothing obviously nasty about these mice - as I say, they were handsome little chaps.
But perhaps the most poignant moment occurred on the occasion when I heard that sharp, significant snap! one day and went to investigate. On the kitchen floor lay a little mouse; instead of being pinned by the bar and having his spine broken, he'd tried to pull out of the way and been brained by the bar as its swung downward in its deathly arc. He lay on his side, a small halo of blood around his head - a sad, touching little sight. In that moment, the immediacy of death bore down on me; it occurred to me that we humans are just like mice, not knowing that we play within the jaws of a trap that could wipe us out in an instant. We have the power of death over mice; other things - sometimes even mice - have the power of death over us.
But now the second batch have been duly exterminated, the thing that puzzles me is the amount of mouse dirt these critters leave behind. I mean, they must be constantly shitting themselves to judge by the amount of crap they leave in their wake. Mind you, the sound of my Dearly Beloved's screaming would be enough to turn a commando's bowels to water; maybe the mice just copped an earful of her ear-splitting screeching and it had a permanent effect on their innards. In any event, clearing up the mess afterwards is a worse job than prising their bodies out of the traps and dumping the corpses in the garbage bin!
Anyhoo, we are mice-free for the time being - pending, that is, the transport of any more stuff from MIL's house to ours, no matter what my Dearly Beloved says! I just hope that's the last we see of them, too; I can think of much better uses to which to put Cheetos than feeding them to mice.
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote of the Day: Hunting - the most effective way of getting rid of vermin, provided a sufficient number of them fall off their horses and break their necks. (Hugh Leonard)
