House o' Mouse

I wanted this entry to make more sense and be more literary, but I just need to get this out of my body. My sanctuary has been invaded. This is the one place where the furniture is (mostly) comfortable, where my life has been centered, where everything has been tailored to fit my needs.

And it’s been invaded.

By mess, and now, by mice.

One or two critters, we could handle. Set the trap, wait to catch it, drive it away.

But now, they’re everywhere. First they chewed through a brand-new loaf of organic spelt bread I bought at a nearby bakery as a reward for sticking it through a tough physical therapy session. Then they found, two shelves up in a basket on the built-in bookcases in the family room, the stash of food we still had around from our former hamster. It seemed like every time we caught one in the trap, we’d see another running through the family room (where I use my floor mats for post-treadmill stretching), skittering around corners in the kitchen, and once, a tail sticking out from behind the toaster. This morning I woke up grumpy to begin with, because of the time change, because I didn’t get enough sleep, and came downstairs to find that the mice had partied it up big time in the living room. This is the room in which I spend a good part of my day. In the living room is an old twin bed I’ve been using for my exercises and to rest. There were droppings all over it. In the living room are two couches on which I keep various pillows, blankets and other physical therapy accoutrements (lounging about on couches is not good for my back) and there were droppings all over those as well. I picked up what I could with tissues, changed the bedding, then walked into the kitchen to see if I could stomach breakfast. The counters needed another cleaning. Then I made the mistake of looking inside the toaster (full of droppings) and completely lost it. I wanted to throw it out. I wanted to torch the house, get in my car and keep on driving. I tried to remember the scene in “She-Devil” when Roseanne (whatever her last name might have been at the time) blew up the house she shared with Ed Begley, Jr. She put something in the microwave and then--

Almost at the moment this scene filled my head, when I was about to burst into tears, Husband came downstairs. All I could stammer out was, “Mice. Everywhere.”

“I’m doing the best I can,” he said.

I wasn’t having this argument again. The one that begins with “I didn’t ask you to solve it,” and ends with one of us stomping away. I didn’t even understand why he was mad. I did a mental rewind and didn’t see anything in those two stammered words that implied that I thought he wasn’t living up to his end of the household responsibilities. It was probably because he hadn’t slept much either and I was hitting him with this before he could have his coffee. I should have walked away. But instead I said some very unladylike things and then walked away.

Which I apologized for later.

When all was calm, I did a little more cleaning. The kitchen counters have become a staging area for empty bottles and such, so I went into the pantry closet for a bag to stow the recyclables in until Husband could take them to the landfill. And found that five shelves up, about level with my chin, one very nimble mouse had chewed open a bag of wild rice. I took a deep breath. I ran my next words through the husband-mistranslation-filter before I let them out of my mouth.

“We need more traps.”

Apparently this was a more acceptable way to express myself. He’d also by this time had not only coffee but breakfast and had watched a bit of the political talking heads on TV so he was in a much better mood.

“OK,” he said.

Then, eliminating all emotion from my voice, I invited him to take a look.

“Holy shit, those things can climb,” he said.

No kidding. While he was admiring their evolutionary acrobatics, I was making plans in my head. First traps. If that doesn’t work, an exterminator. If that doesn’t do it, I’m sending Husband away for a week and inviting in a neighbor’s cat. (He’s allergic to cats) That sounded too complicated. So we’ll just start with the traps and see what happens.

“Probably we got some mice who got in and started breeding,” he said.

Like this is supposed to make me feel better. Appeal to my maternal instincts or something.

Meanwhile I’m spending most of this afternoon upstairs. And if I find any droppings up here, I’m calling the National Guard.