A Torturous Tail (Part One)
I have a problem. Well OK, I have many problems, but this is a new one. In the grand scheme of things it’s only a small problem, pretty darn tiddly in fact, but it’s amazing how much bother something so small can cause. How small is my problem? Roughly the size of a house mouse. Alright, not roughly at all. It’s the size of a house mouse. Because it is a house mouse.
Now, as you know, I’m a friend to all creatures. I don’t believe in killing things, but I also don’t believe I should be sharing my kitchen with something that poops all over the floor and chews up the contents of my cupboards. It’s just not healthy.
So, I’ve had to approach this problem from something of an oblique angle. For the first week or two of joint occupancy I simply asked him very politely to leave. Don’t laugh. I really did. I figured if I explained reasonably that his presence might force me into taking actions that would threaten his wellbeing, he might pack up his little collection of shredded washing up cloths and move out. He didn’t.
I guess I should have realised that any rodent bold enough to cohabit with a large dog was not going to be easily evicted. Frustrated, I marched myself off to the local hardware store in search of some live capture traps. The assistant raised his eyebrows at me when I asked where to find them, and pointed out how effective the kill traps are.
But I just can’t bring myself to do that, no matter how fed up I am of having to clean little pellet-shaped presents off the floor every morning. And trust me, I am very fed up.
I ended up buying a pair of live capture traps and some kind of ultrasonic pulse thing you plug into the wall which is supposed the deter the little critters. I’m pretty sure the latter does nothing more than click every ten seconds or so. It certainly didn’t send Fievel Mousekewitz on his merry way.
There was nothing for it. I was going to have to brave dealing with the live capture traps. Peanut butter in one end (horrific waste of perfectly scrummy goodness) and the door propped open at the other, I set both traps before going to bed and dreamed of setting Fievel free in the local park in the morning. I convinced myself that a few hours stuck inside a plastic prison wouldn’t be so bad for the little fella given that he had a decent supply of peanut butter to keep him occupied.
The following morning I crept down the stairs with some trepidation – uncertain what I might find, and how I might react when faced with a mouse stuck in a six inch tube. I needn’t have worried. Both traps had been activated. Both lots of peanut butter had gone. The ‘lid’ end of both traps lay discarded on the floor. And Mousey was happily tucked away in his recess under the cupboards with a belly full of breakfast.
One of three things had happened: Either the mouse was possessed with some kind of supermouse strength and was able to force the end of the trap off in his powered-by-peanut butter state. Or Charlie (the dog) had smelled the peanut butter, clawed off the trap ends and enjoyed a midnight treat. Or, and I think this the most likely scenario, the pair of them are in cahoots. Mouse enters trap, eats peanut butter and curious Charlie sets the miniscule monster free. If I wasn’t so exasperated with the situation I might actually have been proud of his animal activism. As it was, I cried into my devoid-of-peanut-butter breakfast.
