How Not to Deal with a Mouse Problem
“We have mice”.
The impact this had on me cannot sufficiently be described as swept away. This is because I looked at her out of the corner of my eye, and paused a moment to carefully choose the words for my romantic answer:
“Pffffff! Oh. Please.”
This heart-gripping saga does not end here. I have recorded in this diary the story of how a mouse can transform a man, how a house becomes a field of war, and how a wife gets on your case until you have to pretend you are doing something about the mouse problem. Feel the romance! As food mysteriously gets plundered by miniature cartoon-like vagabonds. Be swept away by the passion! As a young man of twenty-three (wife’s note: he’s almost thirty-six) refuses to accept his fate of going to the grocery store for poison. Embrace the arms of destiny! As I forget my wallet at home and have to go back and get it. Marvel at the special effects! But there aren’t any, it’s just me crouching down under the sink to lay a trap that doesn’t work.
Let us follow the odyssey.
Day 1: Evening. Wife says she thinks she saw something scurrying in the corner. I throw my head back and laugh a hearty, masculine laugh (“Ho,ho, ho!”). Surely, it is my wife being too feminine and scared of dark corners. She just wants to be reassured that she is safe with me.
Day 2: Morning. Slice of bread left overnight on the kitchen counter mysteriously develops large holes. It is not so much as bread with holes in it, but holes which happen to be connected by some bread. It still tasted good with peanut butter, though.
Day 5: Late night. Strange noises coming from the kitchen. Assumed it was the refrigerator’s self-defrost cycle. Further listening revealed it to actually be from “that place between the cabinet drawers and the wall” for which there is no manly-sounding, technical term.
Day 6: Late night. Family asleep. Heard same noise as last night. It sounds unbelievably, precisely, like little claws scrabbling against an expensive wooden surface under the counter. Being a responsible pro-active adult, I choose to ignore it and look busy watching TV. It’s better than looking freaked out by myself.
Day 9: Oh Dear. Actually saw the little brown creature zipping into the back of the sink-cabinet. Blurted out phrases more colorful than, “Oh Dear”.
Day 10: Afternoon. I have deputized my seven-year-old son to join me in the perilous trek to the supermarket. I confide in him that’s it’s for a special mission. He brings his skateboard.
Day 10: Evening. My son asks me what I am placing on the kitchen countertops. I explain it is to capture and destroy our enemy, Obnoxio Rodentia Grossmaxis. He points to the cartoon mouse on the box and asks me if I’m going to kill Mickey Mouse’s friend. I tell him it’s okay: mice are bad and dirty. He asks if the white mice in the pet store are bad animals. I pat his head and lovingly reassure him not to worry, because those mice are supposed to be fed to pythons. He went to check with Mom on this, and remained quiet for most of the evening.
Day 11: Afternoon. None of the glue traps caught anything more than sawdust. I decide to move the traps, but one of them gets stuck to my shirt. I’m not kidding. (“Ohhh… DEAR!!!”, I yell in front of my son).
Day 11: After Dinner. A mouse crawls– no, saunters –in front of the stove, and waves its front paws as if to greet me and say, “Hi! I’ll be around just in case your household will need a hefty dose of Hanta virus, okay?” This means war.
Day 12: Early morning. I decide to engage the enemy, and outfit myself like Rambo. Instead of a headband, it’s an army bush-hat, but enough to get me in the proper battle spirit (insert A-Team style music here). I acquire a five-day stubble, and a deranged, obsessed look in my eyes. The mouse appears to grow to the size of a mature but cute gopher. Despite my best efforts and weaponry (stabbing, chasing, throwing sharp things at him, singing selections from The Best of James Taylor, etc.) the gopher happily wiggles away scot-free. Had I fired bullets at him, he would have twisted backwards, flailing his front paws like Keanu Reeves, as the bullets harmlessly floated by in slow motion. He wouldn’t even drop his sunglasses.
To end this once and for all, I do the unthinkable: I drop 2,000 mentos candies into a bottle of Diet Coke. The resulting powerful explosion recoils and knocks me unconscious.
Day 12: Afternoon. Woke up outside on lawn, which now has several holes, and Diet Coke bubbling out of each one. Not sure if this morning’s massive detonation really happened, but I just heard on the news that on a golf course many, many miles away, Tiger Woods narrowly failed to win a match. Coincidence? You be the judge.
Day 14: I no longer resemble Bill Murray in Caddyshack, but I did hire a professional who is dressed like one of the Ghostbusters. He scatters little lego blocks made of rat poison and (I take his word on this one) peanut butter flavoring. He leaves. Mouse (now normal-sized) appears to be snickering and twirling his moustache. I intend to watch him closely for the next week. My wife tells me to forget about it.
Day 15: Midnight. Wife assures me the house is perfectly quiet, and goes back to sleep. I think it’s too quiet. I need to wake her up again. Because I think I saw something scurrying in the corner.
The End. For Now.
