On Friday afternoon, as I was sitting innocently at my desk, working, I received the following email from John:
Hey-
Sorry, I forgot to pick up that package at our old building. Can you let them know I’ll be by on Monday?
I’m headed to the store to pick up hot dog buns and beer for when Matt comes over tomorrow- do you need anything else?
Also, bad news. We have mice.
John
Do you like how he just snuck that in there? “Bad news. We have mice.” After an email that dealt with such mundane and non-pressing topics as mail and hot dog buns? Did he think I would be so bored by the discussion of groceries I might not notice he had just informed me that there were rodents living in our home?
So I wrote him back:
SHOOOOOOOT MEEEEEEEE.
I have experience with mice, you see. My parents live in a very very old house, and every several years we would get mice. Someone would spot one darting across the kitchen floor or scurrying into a corner of the basement and we’d begin a weeks- or months-long quest to get rid of them before they built little mice mansions and had zillions of mice babies. Sometimes, if we were really lucky, one would die in the walls, and smell up the house for weeks. That was fun.
So yeah, I’m not a fan of mice.
“How do you know we have mice?” I asked.
“From the poop,” he said. “There is lots of poop in the kitchen.”
I didn’t know it before Friday, but “there is lots of poop in the kitchen” ranks high on the list of Things You Should Never Say to Pregnant Ladies.
“Also, he said, I saw them. At least two, maybe three. And I took a picture.”
Then he sent me this:
Because I am a model of efficiency and not one to hesitate in the face of rodent infestation, I had an extermination crew to our house within 90 minutes of first learning of the mice. By the time I got home from work that day, a nice pair of men had already been to our house to address the mouse problem.
The good news? They think this is a newly-arrived, relatively small group of mice. There is actually not that much … evidence (POOP, OMFG) in the basement or the kitchen, and the guys think they just came in recently when it started to get cold out.
The bad news? The bait they use is designed to make the mice really thirsty, so they go outside to seek a fresh water source. This is good, because it keeps them from dying in the walls like ordinary poison would. This is bad because according to the guy, it takes two to three weeks (!!!) for it to fully take effect. Apparently mice are the fucking camels of the rodent world and can last a LONG TIME without going in search of water, even after ingesting little thirst-inducing pellets.
Weeks. Two to three WEEKS. Oh my stars.
You know how when you’re hiking in bear country, it’s wise to make yourself pretty noisy, and call out “hey bear!” every once in a while so you don’t accidentally happen upon a bear and startle it? I have adopted the same strategy for the mice. I now stomp loudly into the kitchen and announce my presence, in the hope that it will scare any large-eared furry things back under the oven. “Hey mouse!” I say. Or “Human alert, everybody hide!” Or just “Incoming!”
Eventually, by the end of the weekend, this had evolved into a song:
The “Begone, Little Mouse” Song
(To the tune of “Hey, you, get off of my cloud” by the Rolling Stones)
Hey! (hey!) Mouse! (mouse!) Get out of my house! (house!)
It’s very catchy.
Oh, and we’ve tried to confine the area on the first floor that the mice can reach by blocking off doorways to other rooms. Thus, the hallway to our kitchen looks like this:
I’m sorry, Richard Russo, I really am. I like your books, but some things are just more important.
Straight Man is one of my favorite books ever!
I am so sorry for your mouse woes. Mouse poop – OMFG indeed! Esp when you’re pregnant. I hope the 2-3 weeks go fast, little bastards.
We had mice in our old house in NJ and they would get in through the garage somehow no matter how many holes we sealed.
The cats took care of it mostly and we had a few traps but they didn’t bother me for the most part.
Until they ate my $40 silicon bakeware.
Then it was on.
Nice picture snap of the wily mouse. I’m impressed!
We get one or two lone mouse characters under our kitchen sink in the fall when it starts to get cold out. Then they meet an unfortunate demise courtesy of a trap from Lowe’s.
What makes me feel even is worse is when T says aloud, “I wonder if his family knows he’s not coming back for the holidays?”
Ach.
HAHAHAHA re: Korinna’s T’s comment…
EW EW EW. we had mice in the house i grew up in, and i have a very vidid memory of my dad pulling one out of our dishwasher when i was about 4, and then him running through the house to throw him outside while the mouse bit through his work glove.
That mouse photo will haunt my dreams.
We have mice in our detached garage, which isn’t that bad, but when I get into my car, my fear is that one will be on the passenger seat just staring at me.
I love John.
THAT PICTURE OMFG. You can come live with us until the 3 week mark is up. Or you can borrow Cleo.
Ohgodohgodohgodohgod. I had no idea that John was so good at burying the lead! First in the email where he informed you about the mice, and then when you asked about the evidence and FIRST he told you about the poop and THEN mentioned “Oh yeah here’s a photo” GAH GAH GAH.
That would FREAK ME OUT. You are more than welcome to come stay at my place. Since you’re pregnant, you can have my bed; I’ll sleep in the shower stall. Mice are freaking disgusting. Don’t even get me started about how they’re smart, and people like them and rats as pets and shit.
LOL, you’re cracking me up! I lived in a really old house in college with some friends and we had a huge mouse problem.
The tipping point was when a mouse was on the kitchen counter, taking an effing fresh-baked cookie off the cooling rack. And he didn’t run when we walked in, just kept hold of the cookie and walking all casual-like across the counter. After that it was all-out war, we set the traps and kept track of our kill on a whiteboard on the fridge (mouse-skulls and cross-bones for each one). Ahhhh, memories.
Oh, man, I’m so sorry about the mice. We live in an old house, and we’ve had them before too. Creeps me right the eff out, too. Also? Gender stereotypes be damned, I’ve never EVER been so glad to live with a MAN who has the innate instinct to KNOW that dealing with dead mice = HIS JOB. (The snap-your-neck traps worked great for us. And we’d even hear them go off, and David would gleefully go check and sure enough, another one dead.)
Also, am I considered a “hypochondriac” if upon reading this I become convinced we have mice too? (What if I read a book about foot binding and my feet start hurting?) Either case, I think I’d make a good candidate for hypnosis… RILLY open to suggestion over here.