I'm sitting in the living room, relaxing after buffalo chicken finger dinner when I see my fiance in the kitchen freeze. He takes an inward gasp of horror and I perk up, saying "What. What is it. What," because I'm guessing that he saw a roach. His mouth is gaping wide open in disbelief.
Then quickly his gaze follows something on the floor and his head jerks back and forth. "I'm not telling you," he whispers, crouching down and staring.
I immediately jump up on the couch-- hysterical.
"What. What is it? Just tell me-- what is it? What. Is it a roach?" I ask. "Oh my god, what is it?!" He lets me continue jabbering like crazy and I'm thinking, what could possibly be worse than a roach? A giant Home Alone II spider? A possum?
Our nosy dog hops off the couch next to me to go investigate.
"I don't want to tell you," he says. "You'll freak out."
"Is it a mouse?" I ask and his head shakes perceptibly. "WHAT??!" In our house? How did he get in?!"
I then begin to interrogate him trying to make sure it was a mouse and not a rat and asking him how big it was and what color. He tells me it was about 3 inches long without the tail (which is enormous) gray and lightening quick.
"Oh my god it's a rat--mice are brown!" I'm wrong of course- what the hell do I know about rodents.
Apparently, lured out by the smell of buffalo chicken, the mouse ran out from under the fridge, checked out the area behind the garbage can and ran under the oven.
We decided that we were going to try to kill him, because I can't sleep under the threat of a mouse getting tangled in my hair. I just learned the Spanish word for mouse the other day too, so I was darkly thinking, "Vas a morir ratón."
"Get a flashlight," he tells me as he picks up the racquetball paddle.
I hesitate, because I'm terrified of the basement and that's where the flashlight lives and generally I don't go down there alone. I stall-- "I'll get the broom," I try but he says, "I need the flashlight -- maybe I can see him," as he opens up the oven and takes out all the pans.
I come back up with the flashlight and a hammer (well it seemed appropriate at the time). He opens the oven and searches for the mouse armed with his racquetball paddle.
We bang on all the walls and appliances in the kitchen, hoping to drive the mouse out.
I pull up a stool-- stand on it and stand sentry armed with the broom and the dustpan blocking the kitchen exit.
"Turn on the oven," I say, and he blasts it to 500.
We waited, tense and ready. Our oblivious dog is sniffing around the kitchen.
"Do you think he smells the mouse?" he asks me.
"No, he's probably just in here because we are," I said, watching the dog. The dog casually licks up a dried up old pea that was forgotten about in a corner and eats it.
"I think silky terriers were bred to be vermin hunters," I say, based on some vague recollection I had. "That's why he shakes his toys back and forth, he's trying to break their necks."
"Speck," he says to our dog, "Get him!"
We both stare at the dog expectantly and he stares back at us dumbly for like a whole minute. He chuffs and lays down.
"I'm just going to bring home a cat," I say. "They should rent out cats. I told you we should have gotten a cat."
We stare at the oven and the preheat alert goes off.
"We need to start Googling things," I announce, because neither of us know a thing about mice. We get out our phones.
What I learned was even worse. Yes, mice can jump a straight foot into the air, they can climb straight up walls, they multiply prolifically and they eat toothpaste and can squeeze into small places and they live INSIDE walls. If one dies in there, you have death smell. Exterminators cost $300 to $500.
"We can't even use traps or poison because the dog will get trapped," I say out loud.
We're still guarding the oven, waiting for Mouse to come out or more preferably-- waiting for the smell of roasting mouse which I imagine would smell like burnt hair and maybe even rabbit.
Then we start second guessing our weapons. "Am I going to be able to kill this thing with this racket? It's going to be gross," he says, miming a racket swing. "Am I going to want to kill him?"
"You'll probably break your hand first, smashing it on the floor like that," I say. He takes a few quick practice smashes.
"No, see it'll work," he assures me. "It'll just make a mess."
"Then what, you'll still use it to play raquetball?" I ask.
"Well I'll clean it first of course."
He picks up a Tupperware container and I suspect that he wants to try to catch the vermin instead of smashing it to death. My thoughts are confirmed after he consults the phone and says, "It says if you release the mouse from a humane trap you have to drive it 8 to 10 miles away before releasing it back into the wild."
I roll my eyes. I just. want. it. dead.
I look at my broom and realize that it's a terrible weapon. Am I planning to sweep him away? And also, if I see the mouse, am I brave enough to hit him or will I just go screaming uncontrollably? Another thing, I'm perched on a stool so I'd probably fall off in hysteria and break my ankle before getting any good whacks in. I remember how bad I am at playing boardwalk Whack-a-Mole. I always miss like, every mole even though the game is made for 8-year-olds.
We get bored waiting, anxiously watching the stove, waiting for the mouse to pop out.
I suddenly remembered something.
"Today, I was working and heard a scratching sound in the wall. I thought it was a squirrel on the roof but was surprised because the noise was so loud," I say. "The dog barked."
So the mouse has been here all day-- lurking in the walls.
We empty the sink, empty the trash, run the dishwasher, put the bananas and lemons into the fridge and pick up the dog bowl and kibble bits off the floor. We find mouse poo behind the trash can.
"Maybe we can starve him to death," I say. That was actually a method listed in the Google advice we culled earlier. Along with other weird advice like putting used kitty litter around entryways, spreading gobs of snake poop near mouse holes or using some kind of crazy box trap to "stun the mouse."
"There's a hole in the back of the oven, he's probably just happy chilling in there until it's not hot anymore," he speculates.
I resolve to borrow someone's cat and we went to bed with a mouse in the house.
UPDATE: We caught the mouse, read about it here.
Then quickly his gaze follows something on the floor and his head jerks back and forth. "I'm not telling you," he whispers, crouching down and staring.
I immediately jump up on the couch-- hysterical.
 |
| Someone makin' buffalo chicken? |
"What. What is it? Just tell me-- what is it? What. Is it a roach?" I ask. "Oh my god, what is it?!" He lets me continue jabbering like crazy and I'm thinking, what could possibly be worse than a roach? A giant Home Alone II spider? A possum?
Our nosy dog hops off the couch next to me to go investigate.
"I don't want to tell you," he says. "You'll freak out."
"Is it a mouse?" I ask and his head shakes perceptibly. "WHAT??!" In our house? How did he get in?!"
I then begin to interrogate him trying to make sure it was a mouse and not a rat and asking him how big it was and what color. He tells me it was about 3 inches long without the tail (which is enormous) gray and lightening quick.
"Oh my god it's a rat--mice are brown!" I'm wrong of course- what the hell do I know about rodents.
Apparently, lured out by the smell of buffalo chicken, the mouse ran out from under the fridge, checked out the area behind the garbage can and ran under the oven.
We decided that we were going to try to kill him, because I can't sleep under the threat of a mouse getting tangled in my hair. I just learned the Spanish word for mouse the other day too, so I was darkly thinking, "Vas a morir ratón."
"Get a flashlight," he tells me as he picks up the racquetball paddle.
I hesitate, because I'm terrified of the basement and that's where the flashlight lives and generally I don't go down there alone. I stall-- "I'll get the broom," I try but he says, "I need the flashlight -- maybe I can see him," as he opens up the oven and takes out all the pans.
I come back up with the flashlight and a hammer (well it seemed appropriate at the time). He opens the oven and searches for the mouse armed with his racquetball paddle.
We bang on all the walls and appliances in the kitchen, hoping to drive the mouse out.
 |
| Do I look like a cat to you? |
I pull up a stool-- stand on it and stand sentry armed with the broom and the dustpan blocking the kitchen exit.
"Turn on the oven," I say, and he blasts it to 500.
We waited, tense and ready. Our oblivious dog is sniffing around the kitchen.
"Do you think he smells the mouse?" he asks me.
"No, he's probably just in here because we are," I said, watching the dog. The dog casually licks up a dried up old pea that was forgotten about in a corner and eats it.
"I think silky terriers were bred to be vermin hunters," I say, based on some vague recollection I had. "That's why he shakes his toys back and forth, he's trying to break their necks."
"Speck," he says to our dog, "Get him!"
We both stare at the dog expectantly and he stares back at us dumbly for like a whole minute. He chuffs and lays down.
"I'm just going to bring home a cat," I say. "They should rent out cats. I told you we should have gotten a cat."
We stare at the oven and the preheat alert goes off.
"We need to start Googling things," I announce, because neither of us know a thing about mice. We get out our phones.
What I learned was even worse. Yes, mice can jump a straight foot into the air, they can climb straight up walls, they multiply prolifically and they eat toothpaste and can squeeze into small places and they live INSIDE walls. If one dies in there, you have death smell. Exterminators cost $300 to $500.
"We can't even use traps or poison because the dog will get trapped," I say out loud.
We're still guarding the oven, waiting for Mouse to come out or more preferably-- waiting for the smell of roasting mouse which I imagine would smell like burnt hair and maybe even rabbit.
Then we start second guessing our weapons. "Am I going to be able to kill this thing with this racket? It's going to be gross," he says, miming a racket swing. "Am I going to want to kill him?"
 |
| Speedy Gonzales ain't worried about no broom... |
"You'll probably break your hand first, smashing it on the floor like that," I say. He takes a few quick practice smashes.
"No, see it'll work," he assures me. "It'll just make a mess."
"Then what, you'll still use it to play raquetball?" I ask.
"Well I'll clean it first of course."
He picks up a Tupperware container and I suspect that he wants to try to catch the vermin instead of smashing it to death. My thoughts are confirmed after he consults the phone and says, "It says if you release the mouse from a humane trap you have to drive it 8 to 10 miles away before releasing it back into the wild."
I roll my eyes. I just. want. it. dead.
I look at my broom and realize that it's a terrible weapon. Am I planning to sweep him away? And also, if I see the mouse, am I brave enough to hit him or will I just go screaming uncontrollably? Another thing, I'm perched on a stool so I'd probably fall off in hysteria and break my ankle before getting any good whacks in. I remember how bad I am at playing boardwalk Whack-a-Mole. I always miss like, every mole even though the game is made for 8-year-olds.
We get bored waiting, anxiously watching the stove, waiting for the mouse to pop out.
I suddenly remembered something.
"Today, I was working and heard a scratching sound in the wall. I thought it was a squirrel on the roof but was surprised because the noise was so loud," I say. "The dog barked."
So the mouse has been here all day-- lurking in the walls.
We empty the sink, empty the trash, run the dishwasher, put the bananas and lemons into the fridge and pick up the dog bowl and kibble bits off the floor. We find mouse poo behind the trash can.
"Maybe we can starve him to death," I say. That was actually a method listed in the Google advice we culled earlier. Along with other weird advice like putting used kitty litter around entryways, spreading gobs of snake poop near mouse holes or using some kind of crazy box trap to "stun the mouse."
"There's a hole in the back of the oven, he's probably just happy chilling in there until it's not hot anymore," he speculates.
I resolve to borrow someone's cat and we went to bed with a mouse in the house.
UPDATE: We caught the mouse, read about it here.