A Torturous Tail (Part Two)
I refuse to be outsmarted by a rodent. Even if he has hoodwinked Charlie into being his sidekick. I am better than this. I am the superior species. Even if I had spent the first two weeks just asking him to vacate in the politest, most British way possible.
Having been thwarted thus far in my attempts to oust the pesky squatter, I resolved to learn from my mistakes. There would be no chance Ratman and Robin could collaborate the following evening. I set a single trap in the kitchen, after purchasing more sacred peanut butter to sacrifice to the cause, moved Charlie’s water bowl into the hallway and closed the dining room door. Mwahahahahaha. As far as I was aware, though often sneaky, Charlie has yet to develop the opposable thumb required to grip and turn the doorknob. Mousey was going to have to take the trap on solo tonight.
Slightly smug, and just a little bit wary of how I would feel gathering up the iddy-biddy baddie the following morning, I once again retreated to the safety of my bed, upstairs.
The fateful morning dawned bright. It was a Sunday, and I was due to be at an audition at 12:30pm. Plenty of time for a lazy lie-in and a trip to the park to release my imprisoned prey. Or so I thought…
Nodding triumphantly at Charlie as I cautiously turned the doorknob and stepped into the dining room, I stealthily crept towards the kitchen, not wishing to cause the verminous villain any more distress than necessary. I craned my neck to peer around the archway into the kitchen and check the status of the trap.
Trap? What trap? The thing was nowhere to be seen. Baffled, I abandoned all sense of stealth and scoured the kitchen and dining room to see where on earth it had got to. Surely the mouse couldn’t have trapped itself and then managed to manoeuvre the cage around the two rooms? Clearly I had underestimated him…
I quickly ascertained that the trap was nowhere in the dining room. Given that my kitchen isn’t large enough to swing a cat in (a cat – now why hadn’t I thought of that option before?) that didn’t leave many options for the intrepid pest. In fact, it left only one option. It had to be underneath the oven.
Lying my entire body flat on the linoleum, including my face (whilst silently praying the mouse hadn’t weed where my cheek now lay), I flashed the light from my phone beneath the oven. It’s an area of my house that I’d never seen before, and, frankly, one I will be quite content never to see again. Filth. Mouse filth. Dust. Dog hair. Food particles. And, right at the back, against the wall, a – still closed shut – live capture mouse trap. Got him!! You can run, but you cannot hide, Stuart Little.
The broom handle was no use at all in hauling it out, and I was slightly concerned I might accidentally reopen the trap door with a misplaced shove, so there was only one thing for it. About half an hour before I was due to leave for my audition, I was heaving a heavy, greasy oven away from the wall.
Inch by inch I revealed the black trap, conscious that, at any point, the incarcerated mouse might make another bid for freedom and come flying at me. Once the oven was in the middle of the kitchen floor (revealed in all its disgusting glory), I endeavoured to scoop the trap towards me with the broom. Gently does it. But even then I expected some kind of movement. Nothing. No sign of life at all.
Suddenly I was overcome with guilt. Had I left it too long before coming downstairs? Had the poor thing died while frantically concealing itself? As I brought the trap closer to me the full horror of the situation became all too clear.
Had Fievel died? Like heck he had. He’d managed to chew his way out of the plastic. That’s right, a mouse not much bigger than my thumb had chewed its way through 2mm thick plastic until it had a big enough hole to escape. The trap was peppered in teeth marks. Apparently I was trying to foil Mighty Mouse.
I think I conceded defeat there and then. I didn’t even put the kitchen back together until I returned from my audition a few hours later.
The irony of me auditioning for a role as a Housekeeper was not lost on me. Despite turning up at the wrong audition hall and having to run across town, I somehow got the part. Perhaps being covered in oven grease and mouse poop made me seem authentic.
So I now have a pet mouse. My morning ritual of clearing the kitchen floor of rodent faeces continues. I find myself dreaming of kill traps regularly. Did I say dreaming? I meant fantasising. But I still can’t bring myself to do it. I’ll just keep asking him nicely…
