A Mouse in the House

We “had” a mouse. I say “had” for two reasons. One because we thought we had a solitary mouse and two because that not-so-solitary-mouse is dead.  The first acquaintance that I had with Mr Mouse was not a pleasant one. He wondered out sniffing for little morsel fromthe previous nights dinner and I performed the classic girl-sees-a-mouse-screams-and-jumps-on-a-chair-manoeuvre.  Panicked, I called my boyfriend: “come home NOW, we have a mouse!” We tried for several months to get rid of Mr Mouse. We started out with the humane traps- filling them with chocolate and peanut butter to serve as mouse-bait. It was a simple procedure, mouse walks into little dark box to find treats, lid on box shuts and I would wave a satiated Mr Mouse goodbye as he is reintroduced to outside world. It turned out that Mr Mouse was very clever and managed to miss every trap around the apartment, whilst I managed to set one off every time I breathed with my mouth open.

The less humane traps followed, the classic spring traps and sticky boards but Mr Mouse quite wisely, did not venture near. Instead he gained a new confidence and I found myself having face-offs with a rodent.  He would stand in the kitchen and I  in the living room staring each other out until finally I’d throw a book and he would meander away to one of his various holes. Not scurry.  Meander. He was found dead two weeks ago- lying face down, spread eagle on the living room floor, no where near a trap. My boyfriend claims it was the moment that he dropped his bath towel that the mouse endured cardiac arrest whilst making his morning crumb run. I was not witness to this event but the tune “Ding-dong the mouse is dead” remained in my head for the rest of the day.

We “had” a second mouse. I say “had” for two reasons. One because we thought he was the only other mouse and two because mouse number two is now dead. Again, not via a trap but this time by the sole of my boyfriends Nike-gel running trainers, one hung-over Sunday morning. Ding-dong the mouse is dead.

We “had” a third mouse. I say “had” for two reasons. One because we didn’t even know that we had a third mouse and two because he was found by my boyfriend again dead, crushed and smelly underneath a black Samsonite carryall which seemed to  have taken part in the Sunday morning shoe thumping. Ding-dong, how many more mice can there be?

Mice four, five and six made nearly simultaneous entrances as I sat eating dinner and watching Prison Break last week.  I can’t really blame the poor creatures for wanting to share my dinner table with me, if I were a mouse that’s where I’d want to be.  Of course what I had to remind myself was that cute as they may be they are pure filth and mice in the kitchen- not a good idea. The final straw really came though, when I discovered that Mr Mouse had quite obviously been having intimate relations with a certain female and as a family they had been tucking into my brand new box of PG Tips. I began singing a different tune all together: “Ding- dong, all the mice must die. Today”.

My landlord in disguise as an exterminator paid a visit on Friday.  There will be no more mice wining and dining in my kitchen. Ding-dong the mice are dead.

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