While the Cat's Away, The Mice Will Play

There is no problem that cannot be solved by the use of high explosives.

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Secret Agent Maizey

 Until she got too sick to care Maizey took her job of protecting us from rodents, snakes and lizards quite seriously.  Every day she patrolled the perimeter like a sentry on guard duty. Her nose searched every corner,  behind every box, under every chair or bush. Only critters with a death wish dared to venture into her territory. 

Things changed shortly before Maizey went to the big dog park in the sky. At first it was a quick glance of something scurrying under the hurricane shutters. The kind of thing that made you scratch your head and wonder if you really saw what you saw. Could it have been the neighbor’s cat? The upstairs ghost? A rat?

John began to notice the tell-tale signs of nightly visitors. An unopened package of peas that didn’t get planted had been chewed through.  Peas were strewn about like beer bottles in a fraternity house. A bag of premium dog food that neither dog would eat, proved to be manna from heaven for whatever creatures were roaming about the dark garage. As if a trail of half nibbled kibble wasn’t bad enough, these interlopers left droppings of various sizes taunting us. 

It got progressively worse after Maizey died. John and his sidekick, Buddy, finally declared war.

In the middle of a heat wave, John removed everything in the garage, even stuff that had been there since 1962. In all the years I’ve lived in this house, I’ve never seen the garage empty. Nor had I seen so many holes where varmints could crawl in and out. Upon inspection the biggest hole was also the least noticeable — under the electrical box where the wires enter the garage. I’m not casting any stones, because unless you looked, you really couldn’t seen it, but let’s just say the electrician who recently replaced the box, didn’t do us any favors. And that thick gray insulation that covers those new wires? It's apparently the mouse equivalent to a gourmet French cheese. I’m not sure if I should be grateful the creature (a cute little mouse like Stuart Little or something on a bigger, Ben-sized scale?) didn’t chew through the wires causing an electrical blackout and another call to the electrician, or sorry he didn’t fry his weasely little ass.

A week into the battle, John sent me to Home Depot for mouse traps. Now I’m all for mouse extermination, but I don’t relish the idea of being the one who finds said mouse stuck in a trap screaming for help, whiskers quivering, and beady little eyes crying for mercy.  I opted for something called Mouse X. For the effective control of mice. The package stated that Mouse X is safe around livestock but not children.  I figured Buddy is somewhere in between. Besides, John is smart enough not to put the stuff anywhere near where Buddy might find it, as in close to a ball. I admit I had second thoughts.  Look how cute that mouse on the package is. And who wants a mouse to eat this organic treat, then head for the attic to die causing a distinct smell of death to float through the air conditioner vents? In my effort to buy the most humane mouse killer, I did not realize this magic potion cost twenty-five dollars until I got home.

"Mom," John scolded. "Take it back. All I need is an old fashioned trap and some cheese." It is probably indicative of the job ahead, that Walmart sells traps in packages of three. 

One side of my brain says "Run, little mousey. Run." The other hears my mother saying, "this is going to hurt me more than it does you" before taking aim at my butt with a Southern momma's swatter of choice, her flip flop.

Every night before they go to bed, John and Buddy set the traps.

“Mousey,” John declares, pointing to the rafters. Buddy stands at attention, eyes and nose following John’s signal. John swears Buddy knows what’s being said. I suspect Buddy is looking for a ball, not a mouse. I love Buddy to pieces, but the only thing he really cares about is retrieving a ball. John is sure, given the chance, Buddy could catch a mouse. He is fast. I doubt, however, he’s that fast. And what if he did catch something? What then?

Every morning, the daring duo check the traps. Some have been ignored completely. Most have no cheese and no mouse. Buddy grabs his ball and heads outside. John’s becomes more determined than ever not to be bested by something whose brain is the size of my pinky. 

Yesterday, I opened the door to the garage and saw, with some trepidation, an upside down trap. I texted John this picture. Like a Navy Seal ready for action, he came running. Before he turned the trap over, I knew it would be empty. Mousey, aka Houdini, had escaped both the trap and an 8 foot fall.  John painted the air blue with the F-word as he checked every trap. Mousey 5. John 0. 

"That MFer is messing with me," grumbled John this morning. 

No traps were tripped but the intrepid mouse left poop on the stairs right in front of John’s door.  I don’t know how much longer before John calls The Critter Gitters. I do know that even if he loses a battle or two, he’ll win the war. 

Maizey on guard against lizards.

According to www.animal-pestcontrol.com, "Dogs can be just as fierce as cats towards mice. They’re territorial, loyal and can be trained so that they’re always on patrol. They will work to keep mice under control just as  a matter of duty, and they can be on guard 24 hours a day." I’m not saying Buddy can’t do it, but I firmly believe if Maizey were here, she would have chased the whole mouse tribe over to my neighbor’s house by now. 

I don’t particularly want to be the Air BnB that rents space to the neighborhood rats. I also have a problem with destroying a family of varmints who just want a warm place to sleep and maybe some dried peas or insulation to chew on. The truth of the matter is, I want the mice gone, but, more than that, I want Maizey back.