Yesterday we found out our house had mice. This surprised me. I always thought mice mainly hung out in gritty urban neighborhoods. We live in Westmeath, a grit-free community that keeps property values up by having strict regulations in place. You get fined for having a bonfire to burn a bit of trash or go late on a tax bill. Grass left to grow too long means a written warning and if a dog is running loose, an animal control officer will catch it, throw it in his truck and take it to jail. That’s how serious the township is about property values in this village. I just assumed it was zone-free for mice.
But they’re here, a deluge of them. We found out because one died inside the house at the beginning of summer. My partner Sheila smelled the deceased mouse immediately. Like many women, she has supernatural powers of smell; she can detect a single molecule of rancid milk at a range of 100 metres or the double-barrel exhaust from a car coming to town upon leaving Spotswood’s Landing. I, on the other hand, never smell anything whether it’s onions sautéing in the frying pan too long or cheap perfume from a woman eager to be noticed. But this one time, I could smell the mouse. It was disgusting. It reminded me of my first job in Kingston, where I shared a little apartment that smelled too. We only did our laundry a couple times a year, to cut down on the wear and tear of the dilapidated clothes washer which helped contribute to the odor.
Naturally, my partner expected me find the smelly mouse and dispose of it. I said no, “I’m not right for this job: the thought of doing it might put me into shock like it had in the past or cause my heart to beat faster than the rotors of a whirly-bird.” In fact, “I would prefer going near a dog sprayed by a skunk than going near a mouse, dead or alive.” Fortunately I’ve been a good negotiator for a long time and I have developed a fair amount of expertise in off-loading problems to someone else. She went for it!
Days later the heat wave struck, so sizzling that an egg could be fried on the sidewalk as the teenager next door found out for himself. We had central air installed in April and wondered if it would ever be needed. What a blessing we did, for the darn mice too, as they came in into our house to keep cool. I heard from reliable sources that the extreme heat this summer was responsible for the influx of mice into many homes. I hope it wasn’t just this one!
Our two cats picked up the chase trying to catch their prey but were handily outwitted. The six-year-old was a little overweight and gave up the hunt after a minimal effort. I gave them a few stern lectures on how to be sneakier and to pounce on their natural enemy with vengeance and not hide around a corner waiting on them to come to them. My advice to Muffin and Peanut didn’t seem to make a bit of difference! Sometimes they are an embarrassment.
Obviously it came time for the main mouser to take action. Sheila began setting a mousetrap in the little closet where our stock of sweets had been disappearing and the mice, the likely suspects. Over a six-week period, she got one each night more than not, a total of 18. To be fair, the cats did catch two or three themselves. Of course I was nowhere in sight when the trap was set as I don’t like the thought of snapping a mouse’s neck. Removal and discarding of the poor slender thing with the small cute ears took place when I was out of the house.
Satisfied that we saw the last of those little beasts didn’t last. The other night some nuts were eaten in that same closet. The trap came out again but to no avail. Five nights in a row, the bait of either cheese, peanut butter or a piece of a cashew the food was gone and the trap still set. This mouse has become a real challenge for my partner and so far it is winning.
When I size up the situation, I’m glad I didn’t have such a problem in the past. But I am thankful that I have an experienced mouser in the house. That way I can turn a blind eye when I need too.
