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.