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 ?
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