Early into my new home there were signs of another resident. When I replaced the dishwasher I found the heaping, steaming piles of shit that could only have been left by a two-ounce mammal. Of course they weren’t heaping or steaming, but you take my point. I was totally willing to live in North Korea/South Korea standoff of mutually assured destruction as long as the mouse, who we’ll call Fred, would mind his own space. And then he ate some of my pasta. It’s on now.
I went to our local hardware store and purchased four of their finest 30-cent mouse traps. Nothing but the best for Fred. Fred was elusive for quite some time and continued to dine on raw pasta, Golden Grahams, bread flour, and a host of other Atkins-hostile products in my pantry. And then, one day, Fred made his mistake. One nose too close to my delectable cheese trap and that’s all she wrote. C’est la vie, Fred. Via con dios. Etc, etc.
As the days past I went through a sort of postpartum depression over the loss of my pet. Sure, he had an eating problem. And, yes, he shat all over my food supplies. And, true, with an underdeveloped neocortex he was bound to make a trap/mouse miscalculation some day. But, hey, he was quiet. And that’s pretty good for a roommate. That was pretty good, that is, until the day more mouse turds started showing up in my pantry again.
This time it’s personal, Fred, Jr. You couldn’t live with the example that I set for you with your dear, departed father. Apperently public execution doesn’t have the same deterring effect that it once did. Let’s try this again.
Attempt 1: Trap with piece of gourmet parmesan cheese. I paid $20 for one pound of this stuff to entice the discriminating mouse. Two days later my dead mouse count remains at one and cheese has been removed from both traps. Ah, Fred, Jr., the battle of wits begins.
Attempt 2: Trap shpackled with a small amount of cream cheese. The increased adhesive properties of cream cheese fasten it better to the mouse trapping lever and assure one dead mouse.
Picture 1: Mouse trap baited with cream cheese.
The trap was cleverly placed in my pantry, behind the tomato processor.
Picture 2: Trap placed among other fine high-carb products.
Two days after laying my clever little trap for Fred, Jr., the goddamn cream cheese is gone. This robbery puts those Dutch Munch-thieves to shame. Dammit.
Picture 3: Son of a bitch! That mouse is good!
Attempt 3: I still can’t believe that fuzzy little bastard was able to remove every last morsel of cream cheese from that trap. I mean, come on, he stripped it like a girl on prom night. All that was left was a greasy spot to remind me of the delicious snack that once lied there. This time I’m upping the ante. I’m going to use something that is so sticky, Fred, Jr. would have more luck and prying a jelly roll from a fat man’s hands than taking it from the trap.
Picture 4: Low-fat peanut butter for the health-conscious mouse.
This morning (1/12/05) I checked the pantry to see if my trap had been successful. It had. I can’t explain why it is that I get so upset at seeing a dead animal but I do. The feelings of remorse are amplified by the fact that I can’t help but feel partly responsible for his death. OK, I can’t help that I feel entirely responsible for his death. This feeling of sadness and regret will probably last until about the next time mouse shit shows up in my closet.
Picture 5: Fred, Jr.’s real identity has been protected in this photo until his next-of-kin have been notified.
Attempt 4: It’s 1/17/04 today and I’m writing the following terse but necessary letter to the Fred dynasty:
From: Scott Brady Drummonds, Mouse Hunter Extraordinaire
To: The Fred Family (Fred IV, Fred V, etc.)
Re: Continued Capital Punishment for TrespassingTwo Whom It May Concern:
This morning the third of a four-pack of mouse traps that I’ve employed to discourage your efforts to raid my food supply executed a member of your family, Fred III (AKA ‘Trey’). Placed there specifically to ward off your pilfering clan, it was the third time that a patriarch of your dynasty tempted fate and lost his life.
While I may only have one more trap readily available, I want to assure you that my resources are nearly limitless. I will continue to purchased traps and set them with the low-fat JIF peanut butter that you seem to find so appetizing.
I take no joy in the death of you and your family members. However, the incursions must stop! Cease and desist your efforts to rape my kitchen cabinet of its carb-o-licious contents or I will be forced to employ a mercenary that will be much less humane in your punishment than I have been. He will not be the himbo slacker feline that you once taunted. He will be a four-pawed, sixteen-clawed voracious mouse killing machine.
You’ve had your warning.
Sincerely,
Scott
Until I’ve received some sort of truce offering from the Fred family, I’ll continue the ethnic cleansing of my pantry.
Is it particularly necessary to protect Fred, Jr.’s identity? You’ve already killed his next of kin.
LOL! I don’t know, Matt, I’m not sure if there is a Fred III en route. I may do another mouse trap style notification to his ass, too.
Damn that penut butter looks good. You would probably catch me.
I’m reminded vaguely of the only time that I experienced mousy-ness in my house — the SOB ran out from under the stove and under the dishwasher in the middle of watching LOTR1. I took a flashlight and examined the underside of the appliance only to discover attempts by previous owners to solve similar problems with poison.
I crammed some insulation down there and finally installed the flashing that the prior owners had neglected.
A couple of weeks later, Hilary notices that there is no longer a draft from under the dishwasher and compliments me on my carpentry. I inform her that it was more a defensive measure — not intended to keep her toes warm — but thanks.
She points out that there was on occasional smell coming from that exact part of the kitchen the whole first year we lived here — on no less than three occasions.
I can only assume that I now have my own personal mouse cemetary under my kitchen. I should probably clean it out, but I suspect that climbing over the tiny skeletons on the way to my (now sealed) kitchen should be enough of a suggestion to keep the little buggers out.
I think you should pull an “Ivan the Terrible” on the rodents. Behead the dead ones and post them on skewers at all possible entry points to your pantry. That should result in a similar level of intimidation as Matt’s sub-appliance graveyard.
Hey!
I finally gotto check your “personal” blog. This is one helluvan entry! So funny! I enjoyed reading it. 🙂
Kei
LOL!!!!! I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed this blog entry! I have been obsessively stalking my very own Fred dynasty in my place and thought I was being a great humanitarian after catching two mice live and flinging them far and wide outside. However, I was informed by folks more in the know than myself that they will make their way right back in there, especially if they have little Freds, which they undoubtedly do. So then I wondered if Fred #3 that I saw after this evacuation was actually a 3rd…or one of the other two which had made their way back in. I then embarked on a similar course of action as your blog describes. I was excited (yet also sad, like you, when I saw the tiny little dead guy’s little face there in the trap) to have one work almost immediately. Within 15 or 20 min of setting it!! However, since then, all the other traps have apparently been approached by only the most experienced of the Fred family, because all the bait (regular Jif Creamy peanut butter) has been completely cleaned from the bait lever thingy. I was happy to see that you eventually got some results…I will be following suit!
I’m so glad I came across your blog…it’s hilarious! Thanks for the laughs!