A Creature WAS Stirring (9/20/10)

In the dead of night,    Could have been in your town.  Your house.  I was awakened from what I assume was a deep sleep by a hellacious and deafening sound coming from the kitchen : flapping, flopping, clacking, squealing, squawking.   Had Sparky gotten up to use the bathroom...     No, but really, can you guess ? IT WAS A GODDAMNED TRAPPED AND OTHERWISE FUCKED UP MOUSE !!!!    For the constant reader, you know that this has been an unreal struggle in our home : it has literally been months, tens and twenties of dollars spent on every trap known to man, entire doorways lined chock-a-block with sticky death trays.  Still, no death, no end to the horror.  We are mocked by his very presence daily.  We had begun to think we needed to just start treating him as a pet - he goin' nowhere.  Yesterday, we finally broke down and bought actual poison - which we had eschewed up to this point re: he can choose to die anywhere, and then it's a full-on hunt for the dead and reeking carcass.  It has come to that.  I simply cannot live like this for another 30 seconds.    Hide your kids, hide your wife - we gon' find you...homeboy    So, I suspect we finally caught the bitch - and I awaken Chief the Barbarian : "Wake up - I think you caught a mouse !"  He is less than enthused, and mutters something about closing the door and are you sure is isn't my machine (CPAP).  I close the bedroom door, he meant the kitchen door.  No good - the racket is appalling, and my eyes will never close again.  I tell him he has to come with me to the bathroom, then.  It is now on.     I leap down the hall in 2 strides, and find safe haven in the guise of a toilet seat.  (Never would have pegged myself as being agile enough to pee while curled into a ball...)  He (Chief) turns on lights and surveys the damage.  The idiot animal is dancing around partially stuck in a trap (that has been sitting in the same spot for, like, months.  Idiot.)  I call for the fireplace shovel and a bag - and insist that he take it across the street (my favored mouse tools and disposal site) after dispatching it.  I get a look.  Okay, maybe not across the street.  He says he needs a longer handle, so runs down to the basement for  "a real shovel".  I cringe and dry heave while he is in the basement - he comes up the stairs with a dustpan, a spade, and a box of Quaker Oat Squares ("...I need cereal for the morning...")      The Critter continues to flail noisily, and is lurching its way across the kitchen.  Oh God no.  I ball up in the living room, gagging and looking out the window - somehow expecting the police or something.  Mouse has somehow dragged itself behind the kitchen trash can.  Chief is jumpy, but resolute.  After the can is moved, It is exposed and starts to really move.  Chief (BraveHeart) then proceeds to WHACK THE MOUSE WITH THE BUSINESS END OF THE SHOVEL.  BAM BAM.  "Ooh, brutal !"  he exclaims.  I am all but barfing, and very near tears.    What ho !  It takes a licking and (literally) keeps on kicking.  Chief is mad now, and proceeds to whack the shit out of it a SECOND TIME.      Dead mouse, right ?  WRONG-O !  It, miraculously and to our utter terror and disbelief, breaks free of the fucking trap and runs into the dining room under the storage ottoman.  I assume this to be his last gasp, and he has chosen to die in private.  My fear starts to give way to a touch of relief - oh God - this is finally over.  So Chief starts shoving furniture all around, banging the shovel - and ceremoniously emptying and shaking each blanket that is housed in the ottoman.  No dice, no mice.  I urge him (Chief) to flip the thing over, in case he (mouse) is plastered to the bottom, finally dying.  Neither of us saw It go anywhere else.       (Please note that, at no time, did either of us scream...)    So, it seems as if...we still have A Mouse.  Somewhere.  In some form.  Chief warned Sparky as he left this note in the morning : "Look out  - he's slow and he's pissed."  Chief said he (mouse) looked "stunned" after the double-shovel whack.  Best case scenario, The Bitch is dead somewhere and let that be a goddamned lesson to him.  Worst case - he is maimed, crazy, and brimming with vengeance.  The Force is strong in this one.  I hate my life.   We had no recourse but to return to bed.  Sparky has, amazingly, slept through the whole ordeal.  The banging, the scrabbling, the squawking  - it resonates, still, in my addled mind.  As we lay there, shivering and gagging (okay, just me).  Chief (every bit the grizzled Vet - clearly reliving the war and reviewing his battle technique says, quietly : "Maybe he is hanging on the bottom of the kitchen door."    And let us turn our ploughshares into mousetraps.                       The Pocket Monkey Theory :      As the The Battle of the Mouse continued, lo, these many millenia,with 8 to 10 traps of different varieties and strengths spread around the human living space.  Chief has done research as to what baits they prefer, how high they can jump (13 inches, Goddammit !), and other useful stuff.      There is just the one somewhere around here, and Chief has decided that it is "too smart to be just a mouse".  In his infinite wisdom, he is now supposing it is not a mouse, but a...."pocket monkey".        Try finding pocket monkey traps at the Home Depot...

The Thing That Refuses to Die, Already (7/29/10)

It is day whatever,     In the House Mouse Saga.  This is getting to be ri-Goddamned-diculous.  The constant reader knows everything : the area (s) of target, the death methods chosen, the angst and sleepless nights.  I even wear my tennis shoes to the bathroom ion the middle of the night - a moment of gross-out is worth me getting to just stomp his  verminy ass to death.  But then I'd have to toss (or donate !) the shoes...    Still - all that heartless bitch does is somehow (miraculously - there is no possible way) climb /fly/catapult/rappel onto the butcher block and leave threatening "fuck you" mini-turds all around the traps.  We keep adding new morsels to the sticky death traps - how about a  little oatmeal, scarecrow ?  Nothing.  Not a word.     Until yesterday (no, still not dead).  Sparky and I are peacefully acting out an episode of Gray's Anatomy (aside : we have watched all available seasons (5) on an endless loop since 12/09 - Lifetime has 3 a day.  So we mute it and act it out.  She is amazing - knows actual lines - she says them as the actors speak - good times. Chief asks : "is she majoring in Gray's Anatomy ?  What about all of her summer homework ?"  To which I  say : "I'm sorry, you're breaking up - I'm going into a tunnel...")    So, all of a sudden, the muted TV is accompanied by a horrified look on her face : she is stock-still, and mouthing something that looks, to the somewhat trained eye, to be "fucking mouse."  Oh lawsy lawsy : long afternoon unforgivable short : there is a scratching (like a cat clawing itself on the furniture) between Sparky's Chair and the couch.  Then, some scrabbling from behind the chair.  I shit - I am stoned to the Mother Ship ( the chair I favor in the living room).  (I actually heard the bastard in the kitchen last week - and had to call my sister, Aunt, to talk me through the closing of both kitchen doors and the application of about 13 library books -  I had to stack them because I swore I saw a shadow.  Trapped - right ?  Wrong.)     We feverishly call Chief at work, and begin whispering hysterically.  He is appalled : what the hell are you people doing ?  Why whisper ?!  By this time, I have closed the window (to block outside noise) and snuck into the kitchen for traps : if I make it physically impossible for It to escape from back there - we got him.  I had somehow  convinced myself that he never left the kitchen...  He apparently does.  BitCH.    One trap under the chair, one near the most obvious place he'll try to escape.  I up the ante with a  juicy grape stuck to the sticky, and I lay another grape at the door of the one trap that looks like a little chapel.  We wait.  I am hot now, so we have to re-open the windows. Which is dicey, as I keep screaming things like : "WHY DON'T YOU JUST DIE, BITCH ?!" or "I'TS YOU OR ME - ONE OF US AIN'T GOING TO DINNER TONIGHT !"  Chief has said to make noise - but now I worry about CPS coming to call.  So I start saying "BAH !" really loud until Casey tells me that I may be speaking Chinese and what will the neighbors think ?  It's always some damned thing...   Chief comes home, upsets the big chair, finds nothing but me curled in a ball on the Mother Ship.  He scolds : "what - did you leave offerings ?  Sacrifices ?"  No, I reply, those are BAIT !  Him : "It's a mouse - not DiDi (aka Didi The Tree Man from, like, Borneo - he is a tree, but he has such a great disposition.  He even has children !)    My latest plan involves the possible sacrificing of the entire butcher block for all eternity - after all, it is nothing more that a turd holder now.  I say we paint a thick coating of some kind of deadly poison with a brush all over the thing, and see who, if anyone, lives through that.                                  Bah !

Man -vs-Beast (7/14/10)

Eek !

   You know how I hate hate hate a mouse in the house.  There are several documented and ridiculous vignettes that exist as a testimony to this fact.

   Our juxtaposition to the field across the street lays us prey to the occasional tiny shithead that can squeeze under garage doors just to make my life a living heck.  I still employ library books to keep them out of the actual upstairs living space.  (Never mind the time I had to return a library book with (gak) CHEWED PAGES).  Some bitches are desperate to gain entry.  Said bitches sleep with the fishes.

   So we gut the kitchen, stuff the microwave full of packages of foodstuffs, sweep, sanitize, de-turd (gak) and lay fancy-ass traps that act like a revolving door.  Of death.   Everything is moved away from the wall, no cords dangle - it is fecking pristine.  Lo and behold - he is STILL managing to CLIMB up on the the rolling butcher block thing : there is nothing up there - NOTHING.  Nothing except for his ridiculing turds every morning.  Oh my bitch.  I want to die.  I also want to know where he hides during his time off.  BitCH.

   And is there nothing more fascinating (Margaret Mead SO wasted her time in Samoa) than watching the escalating battle between a man and a mouse.  The nightly raving about the turds : "They CAN'T climb !"  (I say maybe they can jump, then - I get a look.)  Each day, Chief adds another decoy thing to the butcher block : last night, it was cups.  Before that, it was a basket of coffee.  Now, I see a loaf of bread delicately balanced on top of a jar.  He hates them meeses to pieces - but the male of the species has such an...almost instinctual way of girding for battle.  He stalks and paces, muttering and changing carefully-placed items just so.  I love instinct.

   I am sent to the hardware store today for sticky traps - the most inhumane device on the planet.  Oh well.  Next time, stay away from the humans.  The gloves are off - die screaming in a pile of glue, missy.  I enter the store stand in the doorway, and loudly state "MOUSE KILLING !"  The clerk looks alarmed and points down the aisle.  As I look at the offerings, I repeatedly say  "EEW !" and "GROSS!"  A deathly pall has fallen over True Value.   (Aside : I recommend this shopping technique : one morning, I broke the coffee pot (zounds !), belly crawled to Walgreen's, entered the store, gave the clerk nearest the door a death glare (not unlike one that scared the nurse when I was in labor with Missy and she told me I was "doing great !") and said, loudly and cleary : "COFFEE POT.")

      I finally grab a packet of "pre-carnada trampas engomadas para ratas y ratones.  They are aromatizado con mateqilla de cachuate.  There goes my dinner plans...  I streak down the aisle, sounding not unlike a mouse myself, carrying the trampas like an actual mouse by the tail.  I arrive at the counter, and throw them down, shivering and gagging.  I bend over, panting, grabbing my knees, and ask can I have some keys made too ?   A line of puzzled looking old men has now formed behind me.  What else is new ?

    Then, I start in, as I simply cannot help myself : can they climb ?  Oh yes they can too, mister !  How about jumping ?  Yep - I heard that they can also jump.  I think they're onto the the peanut butter thing, frankly - do you have any other flavors - like wood ?  I only get them one at a time, so...Is it true they have poor peripheral vision and use their whiskers as they dart around ?  What about the hanta virus ?  Do the turds have to be all dried out for that ?  If there is ever more than one, can they sense if the scout is killed and then they clear out ?  Will letting someone else's cat walk around the house (as if) serve as a caution and keep them away ?  Where do they stay in the daytime ?  You know, the sticky trap doesn't actually kill them - then you are stuck with it half-dead and writhing - gross !!

    The keys are made, the old men are getting antsy, most of my questions/statements have not been so much answered as barely tolerated.  The clerk (no mouse expert, he) rings me up, hands me the new keys, and pushes the trampas across the counter at me. 

 I cringe, push las trampas back toward him with my handbag, and say "I really need these in a bag, please... eew."

         Did I say eek ?

            

Sparky Sanders - Bravest Person Ever (3/18/08)

 Okay,
   So a ...mouse was spotted in the living area yesterday, which was horrible.  Chief placed down the all-too-inhumane sticky traps in the kitchen. Eew.  You mess with the bull, you get the horns.
     So, Sparky and I are watching a videotape of the day she was born, and she hears (I heard nothing) rustling from the kitchen.  She investigates - a tiny
mouse ("..oh, Mom, it's so cute !") has his creepy little mouse hands all up in the death goo, and is thrashing.  Cute.  We call Chief, and I am screaming, shuddering, and gagging.  No shit : dry-heaving  I have closed off the kitchen until further notice - no dinner, no nothing.  Chief suggests we...throw it away.  As if.  I continue gagging.  Mouse now has all 4 hands and a tail in the trap, but doesn't start fussing until we break through the barricaded door (as if for
attention).
   Sparky Sanders, Bravest Person Ever, grabs the fireplace shovel.  I (helping) open a Trader Joe's bag, and set it outside the kitchen door (which has
been barricaded with library books by this time).  She(as I scream and dance around, intermittently falling to my knees, inexplicably shouting "...I done never birthed a baby, Miz Skah-lett !") shovels the now squealing and squirming
thing into the bag, and drops it, because it's moving. Moving.  The bag.  Moves.
     I make an executive decision that the mouse must be removed from the premises immediately.  This is not a drill.  Not only could it get loose and come for us, but it can put out a call to its species-mates with its dying breath and they
will gather and overrun the house in revenge.  I grab keys and a phone, and we head to the parking lot across the street from the house.  We (sick with a
megavirus, and have basically been on the couch for 6 days) are in our pajamas.  We leap and scream and fuss our way across the street, much to the delight of a
neighbor.  We reach the parking lot, and dispose of the dying package in the best way we know how : we place in it in the back of a SF city worker's pickup
truck.  We continue to stake out the parking lot and watch the truck.
    The only thing that would have made it complete was if Missy had gotten  off the bus coming home from school, to see her mother and sister screaming in the
parking lot in their pajamas.

                           Proud.


3/19/08 - Update :


Well,  
   There were two (2) City trucks, both of which were parked in their places as of bedtime last night.
    This morning, one is gone - the Mouse one.  The other truck remains.  I had an appointment this morning, and when I came home, I see, from a half-block away, a dark truck blocking our driveway.
   I immediately became (more) irrational, and had an instant scenario in my head where it was the Mouse Truck, and somehow, the deed had been traced back to us and we now had to answer for ourselves, and poor Super-Sparky is alone inside the house.
   It apparently was just a black truck sitting there for no real reason - he moved away when I honked.  This is after an entire evening of discussing various
scenarios in which the now-called "Vengeance Mice"come and overrun the house and peck and nibble us all to death.