Saturday, September 19, 2009

3 blind mice....

3 dead mice.

For those of you that don't know already,
I have been waging a war against the field mice that occasionally invade my kitchen.
It's an old home, a drafty one, and has an old basement with a wine cellar and storm door access.
I see this as a home improvement project in the making, the mice see it as an invitation to a smorgasbord.

I implemented strategies, lost some minor skirmishes (my thumb still remembers the 2nd trap reloading) and have drawn first blood.
I even tried to secure plutonium for radiological results, other than temporary baldness (fingers still crossed on the 'temporary' part). But I continue to wage a war that our resident feline should be waging for me!

In keeping with the theme of my writings I will find a way to make this at least a bit about my cat.
In addition to her lack of concern for the invasion, desire for the peanut butter on the traps (oh the temptation, but I have behaved) my cat managed to catch fleas from the vermin. 3 weeks, 4 baths, a flea collar and a 50$ package of advantix later...and we still haven't gotten rid of the parasite...but the fleas are gone.
(If you think me cruel, or inhumane, keep in mind a few cat has had fleas since the invasion began a little over a month ago. If you have not had a flea ridden cat trying to share a bed with you constantly, you cannot understand the hatred I have acquired for just cannot. It's not the fleas, they don't like me. It's the shaking of the bed, as she scratches. The clawing at the floor if we close the bedroom door. It's the jingle of her collar, or the thumping on the floor, as she scratches...and scratches...and scratches. It was her or the mice.
My vote was for her...I was out-voted by my wife.)

About a week and a half ago, I found another casualty. My second victim.
I re-baited the trap (without personal injury, I was so proud) and waited. After a week plus, I was beginning to think there were no more invaders. The huns had been driven back. The Moors out of Europe. The Vikings from the shore. I left the trap, checking dilligently (twice a day, with hope) to no avail. Had I won? Had they been driven out?

With no thought for the front-lines, the rodents or the cats negligence, my wife and I sat down to have pizza (a treat, as my girth has caused me to partake in a diet...when you view celery with blue cheese dressing a treat, you've gone too far) and watch a movie or two. We chose an action thriller.

In the midst of a fight scene, we hear a 'CLACK' from the kitchen. My head pops up, my hand leaps out and the pause button is pushed. As the cat is not in eyesight, I assume something has been dislodged in the kitchen. I listen, my wife Roxz listens, the world pauses. Uma Thurman is frozen with a snowy background in mid spin with a sword, the clack having coincided with a sword clash I begin to wonder if I was hearing things.
Not trusting the feline to not be trying to outsmart us (assuming she actually thinks that far ahead) I get up slowly and quietly, and tiptoe into the kitchen.

The dim light casts shadows about, the kitchen is empty. No cat hunkers on the counter next to a tumbled utensil. No cat hides under the table atop a pilfered tool. No cat, in fact, stares back from any corner/nook or surface. I start to spin, to go back to my film, when an idea hits me (okay, my wife's forhead...I spun around to fast).
I look at her with this thought foremost, and she reads it in my eyes, "The trap?" she asks.
"Couldn't be that lucky" I respond.

I step to the cupboard under the sink, where my weapons of war are arrayed, and open up. I close it, I turn, and I gloat. My wife accuses me of looking at her with "Pride and boyish glee" in my eyes.

3 down.... :)

When I go to hell, do you think they'll bait man sized traps with pizza?

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