It had been the worst night yet.
The scratching had started at 11:30pm and continued until the early hours of the morn. I dragged myself out of bed several times, and discovered that pounding on the floor made the little bastard shut the hell up for a few minutes, but resistance was, indeed, futile.
I stomped around the house after my alarm went off. "We have GOT to do something about that mouse," I declared. "Let's redouble our efforts, call in the troops, buy and bait Every Fricking Trap that Coles has on offer."
I picked up my work bag.
"I mean, seriously. I'VE HAD ENOUGH."
I pulled out my empty lunch container from the day prior. I looked down at my hand.
THE MOUSE! THE FRICKING SON OF A WHORE ARSING MOUSE!
ON. MY. HAND.
I am not shitting you. Keep in mind that John has never actually seen the mouse at all, whereas I have had it leap out of a washing machine at me, fly up and smack me in the face, and then, the icing on the cake, pulled its little furry body out of my work bag.
I dropped it on the floor. Shrieked. Yelled, "I DON'T BELIEVE IT," at a reasonable volume. Watched him scurry under the bed.
And the search began.
I continued getting ready for work and John pulled out every bag from under the bed, of which there were many, seeing as I use it as my main storage space. He pulled out a roll of Christmas paper and peered through the middle, not entirely unlike a sailor.
"Ah... hah," he said.
We did what any normal people would do. We folded down the ends of the roll and sticky-taped them shut while we further considered our options.
Me: What should we do?
John: I don't know. What do you think we should do?
Me: I don't know. What do you think we should do?
John: I don't know.
Me: Me either.
I went to work.
I called John at lunchtime and he informed me that we no longer have a mouse problem. Which sounds quite sad, really. You're imagining poor mousey being fed his last meal, being asked whether he had any last requests, and being given John's passport for one last wee, aren't you?
It would be nice to say that we released him in a field full of wild flowers and peanut butter and watched him frolic with the other mice, but truth be told, I'm fairly certain that the little son of a bitch is in Mouse Heaven.
RIP, Mousey.
(Or rather, Try And Rest In Peace While Somebody Makes Scratching Noises Next To Your Head For All Of Eternity, Mousey. Yeah.)
The scratching had started at 11:30pm and continued until the early hours of the morn. I dragged myself out of bed several times, and discovered that pounding on the floor made the little bastard shut the hell up for a few minutes, but resistance was, indeed, futile.
I stomped around the house after my alarm went off. "We have GOT to do something about that mouse," I declared. "Let's redouble our efforts, call in the troops, buy and bait Every Fricking Trap that Coles has on offer."
I picked up my work bag.
"I mean, seriously. I'VE HAD ENOUGH."
I pulled out my empty lunch container from the day prior. I looked down at my hand.
THE MOUSE! THE FRICKING SON OF A WHORE ARSING MOUSE!
ON. MY. HAND.
I am not shitting you. Keep in mind that John has never actually seen the mouse at all, whereas I have had it leap out of a washing machine at me, fly up and smack me in the face, and then, the icing on the cake, pulled its little furry body out of my work bag.
I dropped it on the floor. Shrieked. Yelled, "I DON'T BELIEVE IT," at a reasonable volume. Watched him scurry under the bed.
And the search began.
I continued getting ready for work and John pulled out every bag from under the bed, of which there were many, seeing as I use it as my main storage space. He pulled out a roll of Christmas paper and peered through the middle, not entirely unlike a sailor.
"Ah... hah," he said.
We did what any normal people would do. We folded down the ends of the roll and sticky-taped them shut while we further considered our options.
Me: What should we do?
John: I don't know. What do you think we should do?
Me: I don't know. What do you think we should do?
John: I don't know.
Me: Me either.
I went to work.
I called John at lunchtime and he informed me that we no longer have a mouse problem. Which sounds quite sad, really. You're imagining poor mousey being fed his last meal, being asked whether he had any last requests, and being given John's passport for one last wee, aren't you?
It would be nice to say that we released him in a field full of wild flowers and peanut butter and watched him frolic with the other mice, but truth be told, I'm fairly certain that the little son of a bitch is in Mouse Heaven.
RIP, Mousey.
(Or rather, Try And Rest In Peace While Somebody Makes Scratching Noises Next To Your Head For All Of Eternity, Mousey. Yeah.)
posted by GBE at 5:50 pm
11 Comments:
At last!
Atleast he is not pissing/shitting on everything now. They are a bloody nuiscance [sp].
I was going to suggest using the sticky traps, which are not for the faint hearted. Just like those ones you get for 'roaches but bigger. Mr mouse wanders on to it and gets stuck. but..... you have monitor it hourly and then "deal" with it. Otherwise it will eat its own legs off. Which is not nice.
Now all you have to do is find how it got in and remember to keep temptaion out of their way.
:D This was a great week to read all at once. Glad you got the little sucker in the end, especially after taking one in the jaw.
Stands to reason, though, that eventually a supermouse immune to traps would evolve and begin to plague unsuspecting wenches and their menschen. Be glad you sent it's disastrous DNA to the bottom of the local landfill.
And now you can sleep tight - if you conscience will let you. (Like Edgar Allen Poe - 'It's the scratching of that hideous mouse!!')
Dude, you killed a mouse!
And since I used to have one that lived in the roof of my home and scratch all the live long day and night, I concur and support you fully in this decision. (Although because I'm a closet hippy I hope it was quick)
Just think, tonight you get uninterrupted delicious sleep.
Poor little thing. He was just trying to make his way in the world, like the rest of us.
I really hope you killed that little bastard, cuz otherwise he's just going to come straight back.
Guaranteed.
Have you seen 'One foot in the grave'?
I'm imagining you impersonating him with your "I don't believe it!"
v entertaining.
GBE did you watch New York: Life of Grime? I am watching it right now...the rats in New York are an army! Yeeks.
He probably realised he was getting very old and was going to die anyways, so he put himself in a position where the humans could feel like they were the ones which contributed to his death. A final parting gesture, to leave you with a small amount of lingering doubt as to wether you killed him or not. Mice are sneaky.
KH, I'm not hugely squeamish, as far as girls go, but the thought of the sticky trap really makes me feel quite ill. I've got no idea how the little bastard got in here, and he definitely had no food to eat (which is why he got so hungry after we neglected to feed him trap food for a day). I just hope we remain mouse-free for at least a little while. I was truly going bonkers.
Mark, my conscience is doing just fine. All I did was go to work and when I came home, there was no more mouse. I can tell myself anything to make myself feel better. Mousey probably ran away to start a family with his mousey wench and has found a warm hidey hole in which to live and scratch in all he likes. Yeah, that's probably it.
Lucy, oh yes, sleep is sweet. I never realised how much I love uninterrupted sleep. It truly is one of life's great pleasures. I am going to write a book dedicated to its virtues. I will call it 'Sleep is Tops' and it will sell a million copies.
Marcheline, but 'making his way' involved keeping me awake all night and shitting on my clothes. Which is just not acceptable. If he'd been open to reason, then we may have been able to come to some sort of agreement, but he was very uncooperative. I don't even think he spoke any human language. He really couldn't have expected anything less.
Phishez, I don't think he will be coming back, but I'm still worried. I've heard people say that there's never just one mouse. His little mouse family is probably in hiding, and reproducing frantically to build a mouse army with which to launch a full-scale attack. It was pure luck that we got the first one - I don't think we could hold up against any more.
Enny, I loved One Foot in the Grave. Though it was a bit sad, in a way. I always felt that Margaret was holding onto sanity by a very thin thread. This whole experience has been very Victor Meldrew-ish.
Audrey, I hadn't heard of it but just did a bit of a search. They probably live in that big, complex sewer system they've got going there. I imagine they probably have mutant rats, too. Like Splinter.
Jen, I bet you are right. It would be typical of him to manipulate the situation so that he secretly comes out on top. I hate mice.
That was an amazing series of mouse stories. He went where he belonged... to that mouseworld in the sky.
Ta Neil - I figure he's in a better place now, where people aren't trying to kill him all of the time.
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