There is only one reason to ask someone for a mouse trap, but that didn’t stop me from asking why, in the hopes that he was just stocking the garage…at ten o’clock at night.
Needless to say, my hopes were dashed.
He told me he had been sitting on the couch when a mouse attempted to come into the den, from the laundry room. He described a bold creature, who stared him down, unwilling to leave said house without a fight.
My husband got the broom, but alas, this iron mouse defeated him, and my husband collapsed, exhausted from battle, on the couch (in the same room with said mouse).
I remained safely in my bed, out of harms way.
The next morning, I asked the inevitable. Did you get the mouse out?
The answer, no.
It was not a good start to my day, but still, I hoped (because without hope how can we go on?) that our little mighty mouse crawled out, back to his family, in the middle of the night.
I told the boys, absolutely no food downstairs. Dad found a mouse.
To which First Son, said, I thought I saw a tail wagging behind the tv.
And Second Son, said, yea, I saw that, too.
A tail wagging? What?
Interestingly, enough, neither of them said, or did anything upon seeing “a tail wagging” except continue their PS3 game.
Once again, my hopes that the mouse had moved on, were dashed.
I offered the boys a reward. Get the mouse out of the house and I will pay you both five dollars.
They went to work. Second Son got a cap gun, First Son, a light saber.
At this point, my husband came downstairs, dressed for work. Sensing my utter panic about being left alone in the house all day with a mouse, he made a
half assed effort to shoo the thing out from behind the tv stand, while the boys stood armed, ready to guide the mouse out the laundry room door into the garage, where I hoped (there’s that word, again) he had come from, when my lazy kids had forgotten to shut the door.
No luck. The broom handle shoved behind the cabinet, produced only the fifty miscellanous toys that had been hiding behind there.
But, alas, iron mouse was faster than us mere mortals. He had already escaped, unnoticed, back into the laundry room. As my husband went to leave, there he stood, defiantly, in the middle of said laundry room. My husband and boys made a move for him, but with a wink of his eye and a wag of his tail, he scampered behind the washer, out of harms reach.
He had won the battle, but not the war.
I dropped the boys off at CCD. Armed with my wallet, in torrential rains, lightening and thunder, Little Lady and I headed to Home Depot. We were preparing for war.
“Rodent problem?” the flippant young cashier asked, at the sight of four different mouse traps.
“Yes,” I said.
We returned home. Before entering the laundry room, I knocked on the door (I fight fair) and waited. Nothing. So I opened the door wide and waited for signs of movement. Again, nothing. I sent Little Lady in to check it out (not everyone can be a hero in this story).
She told me the coast was clear. She guarded the open door while I went upstairs to set the trap. She had my back as I slowly opened the cabinet that houses the washer to set the trap.
She asked if I was going to kill the mouse. I began to smell a traitor in my ranks. Fearful of a sympathizer, I told her, no, I was sending him back to his mouse friends in the woods. A bold faced lie, but a necessary one.
The only thing left for us to do was wait.
And wait we did. Our enemy is a patient one.
My army returned from CCD, and with them leading the way, I was able to reenter the den and tear it apart. I didn’t find a mouse or mouse droppings, but there was more than one dust bunny that met their demise that day.
Like any good warrior, I started to obsess about the enemy. This wasn’t the first mouse we found in the house. We found two, in the attic, on sticky traps, the first week we moved in. We did not put these sticky traps down, which meant there were mice here, before. At the time, we had had the attic baited. We never saw any mice, again, but then again, with bait, you might never see them.
With iron mouse still in hiding, I was beginning to think he wasn’t just some rogue intruder, but a scout, sent by his people, in search of food. Where there’s one, there’s usually an army.
With three quarters of my troops AWOL in the neighborhood and the other losing heart, I knew I needed back up.
I called in the big guns. Mr. Exterminator.
He came, he explored, he saw, yet another mouse in the attic. Though he couldn’t be sure, he did not think it was the same mouse we saw in the laundry room. He lacked the swagger of iron mouse. He declared a mouse infestation.
I declared war.
There is enough poison bait in my attic, crawl space, and garage to kill a large human (don’t worry, folks, it’s in child proof containers and my kids aren’t hanging out in these spaces), and we might need all of it if he is correct in his estimation of how many mice are living up there.
But mark my words, I will win, thus restoring peace and order to my world!