We discovered a mouse in the house and failed to catch him with a racquetball paddle and a broom. That story is here.
After hallucinating mice and mice sounds all day I went to Walgreen's and spent $9 on a pet-safe Kill and Seal Hygienic Mousetrap.
We have an obsessively nosy dog who investigates everything so we had to have a non-poisonous one that wouldn't snap on his nose.
When I showed Steven the death trap and how it worked he was upset.
"This one is hygienic! No blood or fleas get out!" I try.
He doesn't like the box.
I silently cursed whichever marketer chose to put a graphic photo of a dead mouse on the package with nose blood trickling out of his furry little nose.
"Mice are cute and he's just a little thing. Let's try to catch him my way first," he said, setting up a trap we found on the internet using a garbage can and a pirate-style cardboard gangplank.
We bickered about what bait to use. He used the last little bit of peanut butter we had and said, "We're all out," and started searching the cupboard, "Except for this 'Almond butter' whatever that is."
He starts opening the organic Almond Butter jar and I screech, "Don't use that for the mouse bait! It's like $11 a jar!" He opens it and spills the separated oil out.
"Ew, what is this?" he asks.
"It's the oil- it separates from the nut butter in good quality stuff," I explain.
He tries to eat some and makes a face, "This isn't peanut butter!" he says handing me back the spoon in disgust.
I take the jar back and close it up. "I told you it's Almond butter- there's no sugar in it."
"Get that stuff away from me. I thought it was just a different kind of peanut butter."
He balances the cardboard gangplank on the edge.
"It's going to be like Christmas morning tomorrow," he giggled. "That mouse is going to go right after that peanut butter and fall right in." He lines up the empty trashcan.
We argued over whether to put water at the bottom of the bucket. I was in favor (as it humanely drowns the mouse) and he was against it (because it inhumanely drowns the mouse).
We went upstairs and I ate an ice pop in bed and Steven spilled a full cup of cranberry juice on the white bedroom carpet.
About an hour later- I sat up.
"I'm going to check the trap," I tell him, running downstairs.
It was still there untouched. The dog sniffed the air.
We went back to bed.
The next morning Steven woke me up by jumping up and down next to the bed, saying, "It worked! We caught him! We caught him! It worked! We caught the mouse!"
And we all ran downstairs to see a little gray speck of a mouse at the bottom of the trash can.
"Oh he's adorable and so little!" I say.
"See, I told you-- you would have been so sad if he was all drowned and dead," he points out.
Little mouse pops up and down trying to jump out making little popping noises that are amplified in the can. He can only jump about a foot high. I put a little piece of doggie kibble in the bottom and put the trash can outside.
We debate about what to do with him.
Steven informs me that we should buy a cage and keep him as a pet, letting him run loose in enclosed spaces like the bathroom.
I tell him that mice have diseases and fleas and that he should trap him in Tupperware, take him to work and let him loose somewhere else in the city away from our house.
We're still in negotiations and undecided when he goes to work. He sets the trash can outside under a ledge and safe from the rain.
The day goes on and I learn that I'm a terrible prison guard. I start feeling guilty that the little mouse is all alone in a trash can.
What if he got hurt falling in and is now suffering in the damp dark like some kind of Edgar Allen Poe prisoner?
I cut off a piece of a dish rag and I go outside and lay it down near him so he has something to cuddle with.
Later I bring him an empty toilet paper tube and some toilet paper so that he can make some bedding.
An hour goes by.
I bring him some kibble and a little measuring cup full of water.
I'm worried about myself now because I feel like I'm a host making sure this little invader is comfortable and second guessing my intent to murder it.
Steven is dead-set against killing it and wants to either set it free or keep it as a pet.
We keep the mouse hostage in the garbage can, feeding him carrots and making sure he's still in there.
Until Sunday morning.
I go outside on porch to check on the mouse, shake the can and he's not moving but I see his tail hanging out from the empty toilet paper tube I threw in there.
"He's dead," I yell inside to Steven. "The mouse is dead."
The dog is going nuts next to me, circling around fitfully, whining and jumping. He's desperately trying to peep into the garbage can because he smells this strange mouse smell and he just wants to stick his nose in there so bad.
The mouse is dead, so I tip the can to the right to get the mouse out of the toilet paper tube and faster than a lightening flash he jumps right up next to my arm. I instantly drop the can and start screaming bloody murder.
Excited by my screaming, the dog plunges into the trash can prison. The mouse pops right out, scurrying frightfully quickly along the edge of the patio and then leaping for holy moly freedom through a crack that leads out to an alley way.
I'm shook up. The dog has his whole face shoved into the crack, snorting in disbelief as the mouse hip-hops out of sight.
 |
| Really? Did you have to risk appealing to our feelings by showing this graphic shot of a dead mouse? |
We have an obsessively nosy dog who investigates everything so we had to have a non-poisonous one that wouldn't snap on his nose.
When I showed Steven the death trap and how it worked he was upset.
"This one is hygienic! No blood or fleas get out!" I try.
He doesn't like the box.
I silently cursed whichever marketer chose to put a graphic photo of a dead mouse on the package with nose blood trickling out of his furry little nose.
"Mice are cute and he's just a little thing. Let's try to catch him my way first," he said, setting up a trap we found on the internet using a garbage can and a pirate-style cardboard gangplank.
We bickered about what bait to use. He used the last little bit of peanut butter we had and said, "We're all out," and started searching the cupboard, "Except for this 'Almond butter' whatever that is."
He starts opening the organic Almond Butter jar and I screech, "Don't use that for the mouse bait! It's like $11 a jar!" He opens it and spills the separated oil out.
"Ew, what is this?" he asks.
"It's the oil- it separates from the nut butter in good quality stuff," I explain.
He tries to eat some and makes a face, "This isn't peanut butter!" he says handing me back the spoon in disgust.
I take the jar back and close it up. "I told you it's Almond butter- there's no sugar in it."
"Get that stuff away from me. I thought it was just a different kind of peanut butter."
He balances the cardboard gangplank on the edge.
"It's going to be like Christmas morning tomorrow," he giggled. "That mouse is going to go right after that peanut butter and fall right in." He lines up the empty trashcan.
We argued over whether to put water at the bottom of the bucket. I was in favor (as it humanely drowns the mouse) and he was against it (because it inhumanely drowns the mouse).
 |
| Walk the plank! |
We went upstairs and I ate an ice pop in bed and Steven spilled a full cup of cranberry juice on the white bedroom carpet.
About an hour later- I sat up.
"I'm going to check the trap," I tell him, running downstairs.
It was still there untouched. The dog sniffed the air.
We went back to bed.
The next morning Steven woke me up by jumping up and down next to the bed, saying, "It worked! We caught him! We caught him! It worked! We caught the mouse!"
And we all ran downstairs to see a little gray speck of a mouse at the bottom of the trash can.
"Oh he's adorable and so little!" I say.
"See, I told you-- you would have been so sad if he was all drowned and dead," he points out.
Little mouse pops up and down trying to jump out making little popping noises that are amplified in the can. He can only jump about a foot high. I put a little piece of doggie kibble in the bottom and put the trash can outside.
 |
| Gotcha! |
We debate about what to do with him.
Steven informs me that we should buy a cage and keep him as a pet, letting him run loose in enclosed spaces like the bathroom.
I tell him that mice have diseases and fleas and that he should trap him in Tupperware, take him to work and let him loose somewhere else in the city away from our house.
We're still in negotiations and undecided when he goes to work. He sets the trash can outside under a ledge and safe from the rain.
The day goes on and I learn that I'm a terrible prison guard. I start feeling guilty that the little mouse is all alone in a trash can.
What if he got hurt falling in and is now suffering in the damp dark like some kind of Edgar Allen Poe prisoner?
I cut off a piece of a dish rag and I go outside and lay it down near him so he has something to cuddle with.
Later I bring him an empty toilet paper tube and some toilet paper so that he can make some bedding.
An hour goes by.
I bring him some kibble and a little measuring cup full of water.
I'm worried about myself now because I feel like I'm a host making sure this little invader is comfortable and second guessing my intent to murder it.
Steven is dead-set against killing it and wants to either set it free or keep it as a pet.
We keep the mouse hostage in the garbage can, feeding him carrots and making sure he's still in there.
Until Sunday morning.
I go outside on porch to check on the mouse, shake the can and he's not moving but I see his tail hanging out from the empty toilet paper tube I threw in there.
"He's dead," I yell inside to Steven. "The mouse is dead."
The dog is going nuts next to me, circling around fitfully, whining and jumping. He's desperately trying to peep into the garbage can because he smells this strange mouse smell and he just wants to stick his nose in there so bad.
The mouse is dead, so I tip the can to the right to get the mouse out of the toilet paper tube and faster than a lightening flash he jumps right up next to my arm. I instantly drop the can and start screaming bloody murder.
Excited by my screaming, the dog plunges into the trash can prison. The mouse pops right out, scurrying frightfully quickly along the edge of the patio and then leaping for holy moly freedom through a crack that leads out to an alley way.
I'm shook up. The dog has his whole face shoved into the crack, snorting in disbelief as the mouse hip-hops out of sight.