Ratty McRatFace, Little Mousey Bastard, Scummy Rodent Shit - whatever your preference - has had a veritable FEAST at our expense. The little punk is eating us out of house and home. In the last day and a half, he has eaten:
All off his favourite serving plate: a supposedly very sensitive trap designed to trigger as soon as mousey even looks in its direction.
John, who is getting all inventive, is going to find a piece of cork - so that he can't pull it off the trap, see (a skill at which he EXCELS) - and cover it in pate, to see if mousey's delicate tastes can tempt him to his Snappy death.
Yes, we have resolved to send him to Mouse Heaven. You cannot shit on my clothes and expect to get away with it. This rule applies not only to evil mouses, but to everyone. I think it is a reasonable rule. I do not use your clothes as toilet paper, and I expect the same courtesy in return. If we all did our business on eachother's clothes, where would we be?
And, I know, I know: the miraculous peanut butter. We are completely abnormal in that we do not have peanut butter in our house. Not a bit. I am a jammer; not a peanut butterer. And I am a tight cow who is going to refrain from buying an entire jar of peanut butter with which to tempt a mouse until the very last minute.
If Shitty McMouseShit does his scratching business tonight and keeps waking me up again, THE LAST MINUTE IS NIGH.
Our other options:
This internet thing is completely distracting me from my trap-watching.
- Bacon rind.
- Buttered toast.
- The entire contents of the last slice of chicken and vegetable pie.
- Cottage pie.
- Apricot jam.
- Large chunks of bread.
- Vodka-soaked bread, in the hope that the little shit is a Cadbury and will get tipsy and DIE.
All off his favourite serving plate: a supposedly very sensitive trap designed to trigger as soon as mousey even looks in its direction.
John, who is getting all inventive, is going to find a piece of cork - so that he can't pull it off the trap, see (a skill at which he EXCELS) - and cover it in pate, to see if mousey's delicate tastes can tempt him to his Snappy death.
Yes, we have resolved to send him to Mouse Heaven. You cannot shit on my clothes and expect to get away with it. This rule applies not only to evil mouses, but to everyone. I think it is a reasonable rule. I do not use your clothes as toilet paper, and I expect the same courtesy in return. If we all did our business on eachother's clothes, where would we be?
And, I know, I know: the miraculous peanut butter. We are completely abnormal in that we do not have peanut butter in our house. Not a bit. I am a jammer; not a peanut butterer. And I am a tight cow who is going to refrain from buying an entire jar of peanut butter with which to tempt a mouse until the very last minute.
If Shitty McMouseShit does his scratching business tonight and keeps waking me up again, THE LAST MINUTE IS NIGH.
Our other options:
- Poison. We bought some, in the form of tasty chocolate treats, and then read the packaging to discover that baiting must continue for TWO WEEKS. Two weeks! I cannot handle that little shite scratching and biting his way through the wall to build his festering nest of mouse babies and wee for two whole weeks. I am not a longsuffering Saint who loves mouses.
- I wonder if there is a Patron Saint of Mice? There's Saints for everything. The Patron Saint of Gardening, the Patron Saint of Taking a Wee, the Patron Saint of Shaving your Armpits. EVERYTHING.
- Taming mousey, and training him to do cool things like walk tightropes and make cups of tea. Hey, you never know.
- Continue to feed him food until he is so fat he cannot fit under the washing machine anymore and resigns himself to a life of waddling, and taking frequent breaks.
- Catch him, make him wear an eyepatch and refer to him as DangerMouse. DangerMouse! He's the greatest! He's fantastic!
This internet thing is completely distracting me from my trap-watching.
posted by GBE at 7:41 pm
8 Comments:
I'm for making it fat. In fact, I think all animals are 50 trillion times cuter when they've got a bit of junk in the trunk. Our cat is a fatty boombah and he's just the cutest little fatball.
But i digress.
Mice are disgusting. Before we moved out of our last house, i discovered we had mice living under the oven. I didn't bother killing it though because I'm hoping it runs out during a house inspection to pay back LJ Fuckers for screwing us over.
OK, since you won't use the magical peanut butter, nor will you ask a neighbor for some, try putting the treat on the trap with a very small rubberband. It will be more difficult to take off, and hopefully will make the trap spring onto Mr. Squeakers' little mouse head. This is just me thinking out my ass right now, but indulge me. You need clean clothes dammit!
You have my sympathies. Our last house had mice and they mocked all our attempts at trapping them. It became quite a battle of wills, which unfortunately, they won. Nothing quite so demoralising as being beaten by a mouse; now I know exactly how Tom felt.
I've heard they like chocolate. Probably the really expensive organic kind.
Bastards.
There has to be a way to save the mouse without killing it (this is how much of a weakling I am, I can't even bare the thought of killing a mouse)! Maybe you should get out your old board games, say mousetrap, and use it to trap him. Then you can take him to your gym and let him loose there.
Michelle, the going-off-to-die thing had occurred to me, too. It is a definite last resort. But he's just too clever. We're convinced he actually levitates above the traps to eat what we've left on them.
Audrey, we figure he is a chunky little mouse by now. When we realised that we had gone a whole day without any food being pilfered from traps, I was 99% convinced that he was wedged sideways under the washing machine, unable to move and groaning loudly. He may have even been wearing a muumuu. It is difficult to say.
MHE, the rubber band idea is mighty clever. We had tried to tie the food on with twisty tie things, but he seems pretty good at pulling those straight off, or using his little mousey hands to untwist them. Curse him!
Pomgirl, I'm not sure if I'm feeling what Tom felt as much as I am Scratchy. I'm waiting for the little bastard to run after me with a knife. I must remember to hide all sharp objects.
Don, I would be more inclined to save his life if he would stop weeing and pooing on everything he finds, I think. I've had enough. (Your comment made me laugh lots. I bet Jasmine from the gym wouldn't appreciate Mousey. Ha! Let your frequent working out save you now, wench!)
I doubt feeding him up would work that well either. It would just make him shit more.
split enz ARE a good band.
Phishez, he is a phenomenal shitting machine. We feed him bucketloads of pate one day, and nothing the next, and still he shits and shits and shits. It is quite a mystery.
And John, yes, I quite agree.
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