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... | 
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