Category: mice

An Update on the Mice

Just realized that it’s been a few weeks since I told the world all the sordid details about my rodent infestation. Nothing like a Friday to remind you of the little things in life, right? Well, wonder no more, my friends.

As you’ll recall, when last we met, the mice were waging full out war: they’d gnawed through the phone line to my DSL router, then the power cord to that router, and then they’d chewed off part of the seal to the washing machine. (Had I mentioned that online? I can’t remember. It was a bad day.) Things were so bleak that I came |—–| this close to going nuclear and getting a cat from the shelter. If we hadn’t been leaving for PA the next day, I would have done it. But the thought of having a strange cat in my house for the week I was gone was not a thought that filled me with glee.

So we didn’t.

We set the thermostat to 50, and we left for 10 days.

When we returned, I checked all the traps. No mice. Well, one mouse in the garage, and a mouse tail there too (no idea where the rest of the mouse was. Did it gnaw its own tail off?). But no mice elsewhere. And so Denisa and I resigned ourselves to more skirmishes with the rodents.

Except they didn’t happen. No mouse sounds. No mouse chewings. No mouse signs at all.

The mice are officially gone.

I don’t know what happened. Maybe it got too cold for the critters, or perhaps they were visited by three spirits that showed them the fate that lay in store for them if they continued down this path. Maybe when we said a prayer that our house would be protected, the mice were smitten with a biblical plague, or maybe they all went up in a big mouse rapture.

The fact is, I don’t care what happened to the mice. I just care that they’re gone. (Got the repair bill for the internet fix at my house. $95. Stupid mice.) I’m definitely going the poison route earlier next year. Better a dead mouse I’m smelling in the wall than the live mouse that’s ruining my appliances.

But in any case, you may now stop holding your breath, knowing that my house is once again pest-free. (Well, as long as you don’t count me as a pest . . .)

And there was much rejoicing.

How Deep Does the Mouse Hole Go?

Okay, peoples. This stuff just got real. The internet company finally(!) sent someone out to figure out what was wrong with our connection. It didn’t take them too long: they went around pulling on wires until they found one that jerked a little too easily.

A mouse had chewed right through it.

That’s right. My mouse problem and my internet problem are *one and the same*!

Words fail to capture the exact feelings of loathing and hatred coursing through my veins when it comes to mice at the moment. Suffice it to say that I’ve ordered an additional 20 traps of various shapes and sizes. They’ll be arriving Friday, and Operation Mouse Eradication will be escalated to Code Red.

It’s a small comfort, but as I’ve talked to other people in the area, it seems like mice have been especially bad this year in many places. Maybe we had too good of a summer? I have no idea. But I do know that these rodents must go. (Not that I didn’t know they had to go before. In a way, I feel like the US Government, where the only way I can show just how serious I am about something is to go and spend more money on it, despite the fact that all my money spending to date hasn’t done a blessed thing to stop the problem. Thanks for pointing that out, smarty pants.)

And no–a cat still isn’t a viable option. I know you people love ’em, but I think they stink and they’re annoying. In other news, I’m not in a particularly good mood at the moment. Can you tell?

All mice must die!

These Aren’t Mice. They’re the Rats of NIMH

Okay. I’m not saying I have rats in my house (other than our pet Degus, that is), but I am saying that these rodents are no ordinary rodents. A serious evolutionary jump has occurred inside my walls, folks. How do I know this?

Because these mice are set on world domination, and they’ve come up with an approach that makes them practically immune to any repercussions.

Traps? I’ve set them. They don’t go for the bait, no matter what we use. They were eating our pears, so we put pears out. They stopped eating pears. Eating our avocados, so we put avocados out. Stopped eating avocados. They’ve been munching on Denisa’s African violets–anything but the things we put in traps. No peanut butter, no nutella, no raisins, no walnuts, no nothing.

So we tried glue traps, putting them right where they were coming up from the basement.

They somehow are vaulting over these traps, or they find other ways into the house. We tried the electric sonic mice repellent things. No go.

I’m beginning to think they’re doing things just to make me more mad than I already am. One is living in the wall right by our bed. At 2am every morning, it starts chewing on the wood for a good half hour or so.

Sleep deprivation, people. These mice are retaliating with *psychological warfare*!

So I decided to up the ante. I made a bucket trap a friend recommended: get a 5 gallon bucket, fill it half way with water, put a dowel across it with a tin can on it, coat the tin can in peanut butter or nutella, and then when the mice crawl out on the dowel to get the goodies, the old “log roll” action takes over, and they fall into the water.

Where they drown a miserable death, serving as examples to all other would be pear-thieves in our domicile.

The only problem? These mice aren’t going for the bucket trick, either. I’d think about a cat, but they don’t typically come out into the open. They lurk in cupboards or walls or ceiling spaces. Honestly, when one started gnawing the wall while Denisa and I were watching a movie yesterday, it was a good thing I don’t own a shotgun. I would have shot multiple holes in my wall, just to kill the dang thing.

I’ll try moving the bucket around the house some. Sooner or later, something has to work. Right?


Attack of the Rodent Horde

If there were a director I’d choose to helm a reenactment of the scene at my house every October, it would be Peter Jackson. Hands down, slam dunk, no brainer. Because whoever it was would have to be able to capture the essence of a battle that spans years, not just days or weeks.

Every year, I think it’ll go differently. I’ve made changes to my defense. I’ve plugged up holes, reinforced traps and bait, come up with new approaches that helped me win the war last year. But every year, it’s the same thing.

I picture those little rodents massing outside the walls of my house, plotting their attack routes, sending out scouting expeditions to look for breaches in the defense. And then, as soon as the cold weather starts settling in, they unleash the horde of scrabbling and scratching feet, of twitching whiskers and beady black eyes.

The mice attack in force, and they do it with gusto.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night to another one of their drunken parties–the ones they seem to like to hold right in the ceiling above my bed. I picture them in there, doing the mouse equivalent of this:

This morning, the mice made a grave mistake. Perhaps one of their biggest blunders I’ve ever seen them make. They didn’t contain themselves to the ceilings and the walls. They couldn’t settle for a clandestine scurry across the floor in the middle of the night.

No, this time, they went for Denisa’s fruit. Two pears and an apple–three more casualties of war. And if these mice were capable of abstract thought, they would know they just released the kraken.

I wouldn’t be surprised if I came home today to find a tiny row of mouse heads lining the railing on the front porch. I wouldn’t be sad to see it, either. Looks like it’s time to reload the traps, up the ante, spread out the poison, turn the defense up to 11, and get medieval if we have to.

Because these mice . . . they have to be stopped. And we’re the ones who have to stop them.

Why Mickey is False Advertisement

Walt Disney never lived in an old farmhouse in the autumn–that’s all I can say. Or if he did, he was a little off in the head. Hearing scratchings and gnawings at 9 at night is no way to make anyone a happy camper. What’s so lovable about a mouse? I don’t care if you stick pants on it and give it a girlfriend and a dog, the mouse still deserves nothing more than some D-Con or a quick snap to the neck from a mousetrap.

Can you tell I have mice in my walls again?

I’m grumpy–you don’t want to talk to me today. Have a nice weekend, everybody.

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