Mousey Business

Mice give me the creeps. Rats are way worse. We’ve had rats in our roof a few times over the years, and I always send Pete up into the ceiling to murder them with little green pellets because the sound of them shuffling in the ceiling when I’m trying to sleep is akin to Chinese water torture to me. But I digress. We have been without rats for quite some time now.

However, it seems that mice are another story. Unfortunately. *shudder*. Apparently they’re all over the place in our town at the moment. Probably trying to get out of the freezing cold weather. I half don’t blame them, I just want them to find someone else’s house to defrost in!

About a week ago, I saw a little brown flash out of the corner of my eye. I may have let out a little girly squeal – enough to get the attention of my dearest husband in any case. After some time of setting up little decoys and traps, he eventually caught the little blighter. But what then? Being the gentle, humane being that he is, he decided on relocation. Big mistake.

Not two days later, there was the familiar flash of brown… this time across my lounge room floor. Argh! Pete attempted a chase, but the little bugger was just far too fast for us. (And by us I mean him, as if I would get that close to a creepy little rodent). We set traps, but he was a crafty little thing. Every morning we’d find a cheeseless mouse trap with a scattering of little mousey pellets but no mousey body.

And then, on Saturday, Pete spotted him running down the hallway. He witnessed the mouse flattening himself to squeeze beneath the toilet door, and he knew he had it! No escape route in there! Next thing I hear an awful squealing (it was the mouse, not Pete), and Peter comes around the corner, triumphantly brandishing the flailing rodent. It was sooo teeny-tiny, and scared.

“What am I going to do with it now!??” asked Pete.
“I don’t know, you can’t just kill it, right?” says I.

Of course he couldn’t just kill it. My husband is not the type just to squish the life out of a poor helpless mousey with his own bare hands. So what did he do? He opened the back door, and absolutely pegged the poor thing over the back fence. I can just imagine it flying through the air, arms and legs and tail flailing, crying out, “Mice aren’t meant to flyyyyyyyyyyy!”.

So maybe it did die. I’m not sure. I kind of hope it did, because I don’t want it back in my house seeking revenge. And I hope he didn’t invite any of his friends here. I want my mousey days to be over!

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