I have mice. Not your normal everyday nocturnal eat your food and run mice. I have Frat Boy mice. They party all day and all night. They streak across my living room in broad daylight, they climb my bedroom curtains at night. They try to put their little mousy arms around me while I’m reading on my couch. And sometimes, when they’ve had a particularly raucous mousey kegger, one of them will try to climb in bed with me: “Shhh, Baby… it’s alright… I just wanna cuddle. We don’t have to do anything.”
I am besieged.
Now this isn’t an entreaty for the usual advice ranging from “Get a cat” to “Buy snap traps and use peanut butter… they just love peanut butter”. I have tried it all- except the cat thing… I’m never home, can’t keep food in the house for me, and am quite allergic thank you. I know when I’m beaten. The mice have won their war. Their guerilla tactics of sleep deprivation and tiny poops everywhere have finally broken my resolve.
I knew it was over when I saw that I had devolved to torture. The glue trap debacle revealed that I had crossed a line. Snap traps are quick and relatively clean… get in get out and no one gets hurt… dead, but not hurt. But glue traps… they’re like water boarding for mice. They get stuck and they squeak themselves to death trying to pull themselves free! I can’t face the constant onslaught of nighttime raids and my own increasing wish to do the little furry bastards harm.
So I’ve found the only route around my wall of mice. I will move. I will pack my bags and pull out my snap trap troops. This war is not one I can win, and I will retreat with my dignity (somewhat) intact. It’s a blessing to know when you are defeated and to gracefully accept your only course of action.
It’s either that or just get down with the party mice, give them all names like Bobby J and JoJo and Dale and Lance… now that’s an idea. Maybe I’ve got the makings of the next reality show! “Rodent Shore” , the lives and loves of Parkdale mice and the woman they torture nightly.
I smell a mid season replacement.