the wanting comes in waves

October 19, 2010

(this is part two of the story– if you need to, go read part one!)

With the lovely discovery of mouscatron numero two it was time to get my game face on. One mouse has the cuteness; two mice has the creepiness and the crawliness. It's all fun and games until someone gets their hand stuck in the VCR. Thusly we found ourselves at the store that week checking out our options for turning our kitchen into a makeshift death camp.

Now, several of you have already commented that, Oh boy, wouldn't this be easier if you just had a cat? And my answer to you would be No, no it would not, because you have to pay for that "free" mouscateering by scooping their poop out of a box that you keep inside your house. Also, I do not like cats.

But I would be kidding myself if I didn't admit to you that I have actually considered temporarily hiring on someone's cat for just a few days– just a few days, like... until they're all dead. Or something. However as Bang once injured her eye by running it into a fence trying to lick a cat... really I just don't think cats are in the cards for us, ok?

During our weekly grocery run that Sunday we knocked off items on the list per our usual routine, until we got to the part where I had scrawled in the margin, "death traps." We checked the hardware section first, because, "That's like, house stuff, right?" but apparently no, it is not. They're in the next isle over next to the bleach and all kinds of poison for killing much less-cute things than field mice. Oh the joy of being the people standing in the pest control section. It's akin to announcing to the entire store, "Hello! I am filthy!" which for the record I am not, you jerks.

{On a vaguely related tangent, that reminds me of the time Jon and I were remodeling the kitchen and we needed a sledgehammer. We went to the "tools" section thinking, duh, we need a really large hammer! Turns out a sledgehammer is a seasonal item, in the seasonal section. Try to think your way out of that box.}

Regardless of the availability of sledgehammers, at that point I took Jude to go get his fancy organic snacks and left Jon to do the dirty work of picking out our best option for round number one of a battle whose length has not yet been determined.

He arrived back at the cart with a package of good old-fashioned neck snappers.

"And they're only a dollar!" he exclaimed with glee.

"Of course they're a dollar. Only poor people get mice, Jon."

While I realize that it may not be the most PC thing to talk openly about mouse murder the fact is that it happens. I didn't feel good about the snap-traps but seeing as how mice carry disease and we have a little dude crawling all over the house... well, you know, it's tradition. You come in my home, I break your face. Remember that at my next party, friends!

We got home and while the Jude and I played in the living room Jon was busily setting traps in likely places with old peanut butter, keeping in mind that they had to be hidden away because Bang would totally end up with one of those stuck on her tongue. How the hell do we explain THAT to the vet?  "Oh this dog, yes, the same one that bruised her eyeball running into a fence? Yes now she's got a mouse trap stuck to her face. Enjoooy!"

The traps were set. All there was left to do then was to wait. I tried to put it out of my mind because I was convulsively alternating between FREAKING the FUCK OUT and trying to act like it was no big thing. I finally settled on conveniently pretending that this wasn't happening. Wheee!

The next morning it was go time– time to rip off the bandaid and see if mouse #2 had met his untimely demise. Had we orphaned his life partner Hugo? Would his tea-cozy be lonely? I let Jon do the honors, and by "let Jon do the honors" I mean I left the room because my skin was wiggling around on me like a nightmare pony was dancing over my veins.

"Score! We got one!

.... two!"


"TWO?! WHAT DO YOU MEAN, TWO!? There aren't supposed to be TWOOOO, we are just catching the ONE so we can be DONE. THERE WAS ONLY ONE MORE MOUSE. ONLY ONE MORE!!" and my voice reached a terrifying octave of panic previously only heard in the presence of NO DONUTS.

Two. Mouse two and mouse three.

And then I had to go breath into a paper bag, because they weren't done with us yet. Shit was about to get real, despite the snappy passing of mouse two, three, and four.

to be continued...
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