This summer I moved into a 100+ year-old house. Before I moved in, my future landlady warned me that they have battled "critters" in the past. After being reassured that said critters were mice, not snakes-
[editor's note: yah, snakes crossed my mind, even though this house is smack in the middle of a city. When it comes to me and snakes, logic is rarely involved.]
-I shrugged mentally. I grew up in a 100+ year-old-house. In the country. Mice don't really bother me. I mean, not that I'd choose to deal with them, but unless they're attacking me (which, in my experience, isn't common) I'm good.
So I moved in. It's a cute house. I like lots of stuff about it. One day, soon after helping me move in, my dad noticed the cupboard where I'd store my snack foods. "If you're going to keep food like that there, you should put it in a plastic container," he said, "to keep the mice out."
I agreed it was a good idea. And then, owing to my not-so-extreme concern about the thus-far-unseen mice, I promptly forgot.
A couple months passed with no sight of mice, or their (ahem) leavings. I got busy with my new job and hosting a stream of house guests. One day, I opened my snack cupboard to forage for sustenance, and I noticed that a package of peanut butter crackers was opened and half eaten-
[editor's note: you were TOTALLY expecting me to be face-to-whiskers with a mouse, weren't you?]
-which is strange because I never eat half a package. And I live alone. Upon closer inspection, I realized they'd been gnawed...very neatly...by a critter. Pondering the precision of my unwanted houseguest's eating habits, I look further through the collection of snack bags. As I did so, I had a sudden, clear vision of my father's words of wisdom from a few months back. That plastic container I was going to pick up. Oops.
The next day after work I headed to Meijer, where I picked up a couple mousetraps and a purple plastic tote that would fit inside my cabinet. Let's pause here for a moment to congratulate me on thinking to measure the size of the cupboard opening before going to the store. Thank you. I got these mousetraps that are designed like the traditional kind, but made of plastic and easy to set. Most importantly, they let you get rid of the dead mice without touching them (which is worth the extra $1 each in my opinion).
That was a Friday. In less than 24 hours, I had my first mouse. By Monday morning, I had caught and disposed of three. The first one only got caught by the foot, and it was a little traumatic for me, figuring out what to do. I am too pragmatic to take it outside and set it free to come back in; I am too squeamish to smash his nasty little mouse-head; I am without any other weapons that seemed reasonable. Eventually I drowned him in my giant outdoor trashcan, which conveniently had about a foot of water in the bottom from the rain that night. Disposal of the other two mice was, if not enjoyable, at least trauma-free and satisfying. Take THAT, jerk-mice!!
Mouse four and five each waited just long enough after the previous victim for me to stop expecting to see them whenever I checked the traps. Thanks, jerk-mice. (I suppose we're even now, though, since you're dead.) Anyway, I've been feeling pretty good about the whole thing. Things have seemed more or less under control in the mouse containment arena. And then today happened.
This morning, when I came into the house after going to the gym (pause again for you to be impressed that I went to the gym before work), I thought to myself, "I need to take out the trash." It smelled a little funky. Just a hint of funk, which usually indicates need-to-change trash bag at my house. As the only person producing trash in the house, it usually started to smell before it gets full. It was trash day anyway, so I took out the trash before I left for work, expecting the funk to disappear while I was gone.
When I got home this afternoon, it still smelled funky. FunkiER, in fact. Weird. Maybe it's the dishes? (ok, don't judge me. I try not to let my dishes go long enough for them to stink, but...well...sometimes it happens. For what it's worth, if you ever come to visit me, I always do dishes in preparation of guests) I had already been planning to take care of the dishes today, so I got to it. I lit a smelly candle (blueberry muffins, thank you Sarah) and set to work. As I came to the end of the sizable pile, I could tell that the smell wasn't disappating. Huh! ?? What the what?
I checked my fruit bowl. Nothing rotting. Checked the veggies. I had a rotting zucchini, but it didn't smell. I chucked the zucchini and continued on my search. Smell isn't coming from the fridge or under the sink. Onions are fine. I guess I'll just check each cabinet? Silverware, check. Hotpads, yep. Empty drawer, pause to marvel at having more cabinet space than I can even use. All the way around to...you guessed it!...the snack cabinet. (sigh)
After my epic Meijer trip, my snacks stay in the purple tote, and I keep a trap behind it. Being the fan of snacks that I am, I tend to check that trap quite often. But this week, I had been a bit lazy, and hadn't put my snack bag back in the tote. As I looked at the tote, I thought, "Oh man. How long since I checked this trap? Two days? Three?" The smell indicated a few days at least.
I stared at the tote. Bracing myself for what was behind it. Reminding myself to check traps daily. Feeling irritated that my (non-existent) husband wasn't around to do this. Wishing that Harrod was closer to Fort Wayne and I could enlist the help of my dad or brother. This is totally a boy job. Tossing a freshly-dead mouse is one thing. All signs indicated this guy wasn't fresh. I gulped. I steeled myself. I moved the tote.
I shall spare you a play-by-play of this part of the story. Just a few clinical observations:
-Found it
-Happily, the trap was upside down
-I was very conscious of where I grabbed hold of the trap, and managed the entire disposal without looking at the whole mouse.
-I have never been happier with my choice to go with the touch-free traps
-Judging from the puddle of goo and...other things...left behind, mice decompose pretty quickly
-Maybe I need a cat
-Maybe I need a husband
-Maybe I could hire this job out
-Ugh. I'm not usually squeamish, but it's been an hour or so, and I'm still feeling a little ookey.
And so. The moral of the story, kids, is to always check your traps frequently.
I can hardly wait until the weather turns cold...
