“What the hell are you doing?” George asked as he stumbled
out of our bedroom and attempted to make his way around me to the coffeemaker.
“Get out of my way buster, I’m going to get that little fucker.”
“You do realize it’s five a.m., you’re wearing only a
t-shirt, running through the house wielding a broom like it’s a weapon?”
“Of course I know…I’m not a sleep runner.” Whack, whack,
whack went the broom. “Damn, I missed.”
“I need coffee.”
“You could get another broom and help me try to whack the
little shit.”
“Hey lady, not even the cat is helping you.”
“He at least made his “meep, meep” sound to alert me we’d
been invaded. You just came out scratching and whining.”
“Shit,” George yelled, scaring me, the cat…and the mouse that
ran under the dishwasher right between the three glue traps placed under it.
George on the other ‘foot’ had a glue trap stuck to his barefoot. “This place
is a freaking minefield of mouse catching devices. You’ve finally lost your
mind.”
“Not my fault your big foot stepped under the microwave
stand and got a glue trap. And for your information all my devices are cat
safe, if not husband safe.”
Honestly, George was right, but I wasn’t telling him that.
When you live in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by
pastures and mountain meadows, you are a mouse magnet. However after spending
an entire Saturday filling every new crack and possible opening for a mouse to
get in, and feeling I was once again Queen of my castle, one little shit
invaded. This mouse was a genetic anomaly. It NEVER ran along the wall edges.
This vermin continually ran through the middle of the kitchen and pantry.
The floors and counters had been bleached so many times the
house smelled like an indoor swimming pool. Next, I tried putting Bounce fabric
softener all around the house. Since we have a pet I couldn’t fill the room
with glue or spring-loaded traps, so I invested a huge amount of money on the
metal tin cat box catchers. Never caught
a thing. Finally I built little forts around glue traps so a mouse could get in
but not the cat. I watched the damn thing LITERALLY run in, out and around a
minefield of these.
Since neither the cat nor George was dutifully obsessed with
killing Osama Bin Larder, I’ve ordered night vision goggles and a bazooka,
(which was a lot easier to purchase online than you’d suspect). I may have gotten carried away when I also
bought a ghillie suit, but that was more for fun than camouflage.
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