A few weeks ago I came home to a message on the answering machine from my husband. He said something about picking up stuff at the store, told me when he'd be home, and then, almost as an afterthought, he mentioned that he'd heard some scratching in the heater vent and thought we might have mice. Then he hung up. I loved the fact that he dropped that little bomb into an otherwise benign message: "We need milk, I'll be home by 10 and we have mice. Bye!"
My first response to the announcement of our new and unwanted companions was to lecture the cats. "Look, kids," I called out in my Mom's serious-as-a-heart-attack voice as I walked purposefully into the living room, where Nora was sleeping on a blanket and Riley was stretched out on his scratching post, "We need to have a talk. Now, you guys have it pretty easy around here. We provide comfy surfaces for sleeping, regular infusions of catnip and high quality kibble," at which point Riley yawned and glared at me with sleepy eyes. "Well, if you don't like the kibble," I snarled, "maybe you'd like to find your meals elsewhere. Like in the heating ducts. Apparently there's plenty to choose from. And never once have you even indicated that there might be something amiss in the walls. I expect a little more attentiveness around here. Do you honestly think we keep you around for your entertainment value?" And then Nora stretched and curled her head under her shoulder so she was looking at me upside down, which made me laugh and I had to get off the soapbox.
Damn cats.
Because none of us saw or heard the mice again, I forgot about them after that evening. Dave's home all day and I wasn't coming home to horror stories of squeaks and scratching, and we didn't see droppings or any other evidence of them, so I didn't think about them. I felt that the mouse issue fell by default to Dave anyway, since he's home all day and has plenty of time to plot an attack, and plus... well, he's a guy. I could deal with mice in my house if I had to, but I have a husband, and I feel he has a role to fill, just like the cats. Dealing with mice in our house falls into that category, both for cats and husbands.
Last Friday when I came home from work, Dave called out gleefully, "Hey, can I show you something?" I followed him out to the garage and he told me to peer behind the water heater. There, piled up and tumbling over each other, was a pile of about 30 dog biscuits.
"I thought we'd been going through dog cookies pretty fast!" Dave cried triumphantly.
"Pretty big mouse," I pointed out flatly, a little stunned.
Well, now that we knew we had some sort of visitor, Dave went to the hardware store and bought some humane mousetraps. I got to be squeamish by being uncomfortable with the whole idea of disposing of the mice, and Dave got to strut around a little and act as though stunning a mouse wasn't any big deal. He promised to clean up the Biscuit Ziggurat the next morning and then he would bait and set out the traps.
When he went into the garage with the dog later that evening to scoop out the Gravy Train, I heard a sudden, "Whoa!" then silence. I knew it had to do with the mouse, so I waited on the couch - no way I was going into that garage. Dave and Rhett returned, and the new information wasn't exciting. "I think it's not a mouse." Dave announced. I waited.
"I think we have a squirrel."
Strangely, I was relieved by this news. Mice bug me, but things could be a lot worse. Squirrels, however rabid they might be, are somehow OK - though I don't want them in my garage. I watch squirrels in the park. They chase each other around tree trunks and hold acorns in their paws rather cunningly and I think they're sort of funny.
But not when they're in my garage. So on Saturday morning, Dave ventured again to the hardware store and brought home the biggest rat trap I've ever seen. It looked like a classic mousetrap on steroids. He tested it with a pair of pliers, then baited it with a new dog biscuit, and, after cleaning up the Big Rock Cookie Mountain, set the trap out behind the water heater.
And so the wait began.
The next morning, Dave went out to check our progress. Another biscuit had been stolen, but the trap hadn't been touched. We knew the squirrel had paid a visit, but didn't get close to the trap. Smart squirrel. Dumb us.
That night, Dave put the trap right on top of the bag of dog cookies, then set half a cookie gently on top. We waited again.
The next morning at work, I got a phone call.
"Well, this is the gentlest squirrel I've ever heard of. He got the cookie, but didn't spring the trap."
We both thought for a moment, then, at nearly the same time, said, "Tie the cookie to the trap."
When I came home on Monday night, Dave explained that he had drilled a small hole through the center of half a dog biscuit (with his Dremel no less - the man loves that Dremel) and tied the biscuit with thread to the spring. He'd set the trap again on top of the bag of biscuits and felt sure that this time we'd catch ourselves a thieving squirrel.
By this point I was starting to feel really badly for the squirrel, and a little guilty, so I tuned into the Niner game and settled in on the couch. It was a good game, y'all - quite suspenseful. Sometime during the third quarter, I thought I heard something plastic-like hitting the floor in the garage. Muting the TV, I listened hard and watched Riley, who was asleep on the back of a couch cushion. He didn't stir. No further sound from the garage.
"Dave?" I called out warily. "Something just snapped in the garage..."
"Huh?" He called down from his office.
"Something just SNAPPED in the GARAGE and I'm not going OUT there!"
Then bounded the Great White Hunter down the stairs with a crafty, evil laugh. The dog followed in a flurry of excitement, not knowing what the fuss was about, but thrilled just to be there. The cat remained asleep.
Damn cat.
Dave crept into the garage while I kept the dog next to me. There was a long pause, then...
"Ooohhhhh..."
I have you tell you, I didn't want to know what that meant. Not at all. But I called out anyway, "Did you get him?"
"Um... yeah..."
"Was it a squirrel?"
"Um... no..."
"Was it... a mouse?" I asked hopefully.
"No."
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
"It was a rat wasn't it?"
"Yup," Dave answered as he re-entered the house to get some paper towels.
"Was it... a big rat?" I asked, my voice turning into this whiney girly thing I haven't heard in 20 years.
"Yeah. Skinny though. About this long from his nose to the base of his tail," he replied, making the "Hang Loose" sign with his hand and spreading his thumb and pinky out as far as he could.
"Is it... dead?" I asked. For some reason it seemed imperative to both ask stupid questions and articulate them in the dramatic style of William Shatner.
"Yeah. Wanna see it?"
"God no!" My curiosity about the rat was morbidly high, but I didn't want to see the thing. It could, after all, be simply stunned into submission and biding it's time to make a leap for my face to claw my eyeballs out. This, by the way, is also a capability I attribute to spiders. I'd make a great Orkin man, no?
"Kristin, it's dead and I moved it to the end of the garage. You can see it from the doorway," Dave said with a get-over-it voice that meant I sort of had to look. I can get girly with Dave, but only to a point.
So I went to the door, and I looked. It was a dead rat, ok? I saw it, it was dead, it was much bigger than I want a rat to ever be. OK? Happy now?
Gads.
So Dave cleaned up the rat and felt very manly in his ability to rid his cave of vermin. I was very pleased about his rat catching ability, and also his fortitude in cleaning up the aftermath. I started going into the garage again, which made life a little easier for everyone.
It didn't last long though. On Wednesday night, Dave informed me that we have "rats". Rats, as in more than one rat. He said he heard scratching in the attic. This doesn't thrill me at all, though I must say that it doesn't surprise me either. How often do you see a lone rat, after all? They run around in packs, right? A pod of whales, a murder of crows, a flock of seagulls, and a pack of rats - I know this from the S.A.T.'s. I picture them all up in the attic trying to figure out where their missing friend is. "You seen Phil?" "No man, last I saw him he was going down for a snack." "Dude, he was supposed to bring one back for me and his old lady's getting worried!" I suppose they're like ants - if you see one, there are a thousand others you don't see.
God, I hope that's only true for ants. I'd hate to think of what the exterminators (for now we've called the big boys) will find otherwise. Yes, we've pulled in the hired guns, who will be here tomorrow morning to provide The Service, which sounds pretty ominous to me. They'll lay down bait in the attic and the garage, and then in a week or so they'll come back and investigate for dead rats. They'll lay down more bait or whatever, and then come back a third time to ensure we don't have any more problems. In the meantime, if we see rats or find (God help us) a dead rat, we call them and they'll come out to "take care of it." I envision several large Mafia types with holsters full of rat poison sauntering into our house and explaining that they're going to make the rats an offer they can't refuse, but in reality they'll probably send us a normal looking middle aged man. All this for just $125.
Damn cats.
- KNP, Oct 20, '02
