Shortly after we moved into our new house, I began noticing things. There was some mysterious "dirt" in the garage. Hmmm. Well, we did have a lot of boxes, movers, etc. Next, one night at dusk, I thought I saw a "shadow" streak across the floor. Double hmmm. Maybe I just needed new contacts. But then came the clincher. Somebody nibbled right through the foil wrapper of my emergency stash chocolate bar. Deep down, I knew what all this meant, even though I didn't want to admit it.
Just to be sure though, I confronted Tim, but the forensic evidence backed up his innocence. I couldn't deny the truth any longer. We had mice. Greedy, chocolate-stealing mice. They had to go.
Now, I am normally a live and let live kind of gal, but hey, they had crossed the line by going after my chocolate, so I did what had to be done (without actually having to touch one of the critters myself- bleck!) and called the exterminator.
Yadda, yadda, yadda, history of mice. Blah, blah, blah, habits and patterns. Look pal, all this info is great. Truly. But as fascinating as the crash course in Rodents 101 is, I DON'T CARE. I just want them GONE. NOW. Oh, and I'd like to do it humanely.
(long suffering sigh) Fine. Glue traps?
Hmm. Stuck to a board where they starve to death. Yeah. Not really sounding humane.
(Drawn-out sigh complete with impressive amount of chest expansion to make his point) Poison?
H-U-M-A-N-E. Maybe let's look it up in the dictionary, shall we? I'll bet there's even an app for that.
(Big sigh, accompanied by eye rolling in heavenward direction while mouthing what looked to be a prayer for patience). Traps?
Okay, but the kind where you can release them later, right?
(Huge, shoulder-heaving, you're-killing-me-lady sigh accompanied by full on glare)
He then explained to me the difference between exterminators and the animal rescue league. I explained the difference between being hired and being fired.
So we set the lures, plugged up the point(s) of entry and celebrated by watching some Tom and Jerry cartoons. Simple and painless for everyone. Nope. Uh uh. And, oh yeah, not that easy by a mile.
A few days later, I was upstairs doing some laundry when Tim came home from work early. While waiting for me to finish up, he sat down in the familyroom off the kitchen and got on his laptop (you can take the boy out of work...)
A few minutes later, I descended the stairs and a movement in the kitchen caught my eye. There. On the counter, my counter was a mouse, while Tim happily clicked and clacked along on his computer, totally oblivious to the threat to my chocolate and what was left of my sanity taking place a mere room away. Gross. Yuck. Ick and Ack!
Now, here is where our stories differ.
I remember calmly strolling over to Tim and quietly whispering in his ear that our mouse was back and trotting around my U-shaped countertops like a K-mart shopper looking for the blue-light special.
According to Tim, I screamed at the top of my lungs, pointed with trembling finger to the kitchen as though Freddie Kruger was slashing his way in through the window and gasped out something incomprehensible like mmm...mmm...mmm...ow...ow...ow... But he exaggerates.
Either way, Tim belatedly got the message and rushed into battle like a mighty warrior of old armed with his trusty and lethal sword...except in his case, it was a dishtowel.
For the next several minutes, Tim chased after that mouse. Back and forth, back and forth they scampered in vain, the mouse trying to flee, Tim trying to clean it, er, catch it, while I stood cheering him on. Okay, so maybe I was screaming like a banshee.
Exasperated and exhausted, both Tim and the mouse (I swear) stopped and looked at me.
"Be quiet," Tim snapped. (The mouse wisely kept his big trap shut) "You're scaring the poor little thing."
Excuse me? I'm scaring him? He is on my counter in my kitchen, going after more of my chocolate, and you're worried that I'm, what, hurting his fuzzy little feelings? Making him feel unloved and unwanted? Oh no! How will I ever be able to face myself in the mirror again?!? Heaven forbid my screaming might actually scare the "poor little thing" to death! Whatever would we do?
Tim growled and ground his teeth in total frustration. The mouse, sensing it was now or never, took advantage of his distraction, and with a death-defying leap Evil Knieval would be proud of, landed on the floor, scooted under the stove and escaped. We hunted for that little guy the rest of the night, but apparently Tim had frightened him off with all his yelling and carrying on, so he was never seen again.
The next day, I rented a semi to go buy some Clorox while Tim called the exterminator. And that was the end of our uninvited guest (although I swear I saw him in the yard waving good-bye to Tim one morning and giving him the thumbs-up), and the end of the exterminator as well, who, last I heard was going into a less service-oriented profession, like cloistered monk or hermit.
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