Or rather, there was a mouse in my house. My apartment rather. My apartment that's the size of a shoebox and surely not big enough for the both of us. So... there was a mouse in my shoebox. (But that doesn't rhyme!) And as I'm not too keen on sharing my shoebox, he had to go. I know, I know.
Love every living creature. God created us all. Yeah, sure. You say that now, but when the little mother... darling is scampering in your space and crawling all over your furniture, I dare you to repeat that mantra.
Now, this is a story all about how, my apartment got flipped-turned upside down. I'd like to take minute, just sit right there. I'll tell you how I caught a mouse by the name of Astaire. (Bonus points if you can place that theme song) Yes, I named the damn thing - I like to name my victims.
He looked nothing like Ratatouille. Loved that movie. Ratatouille can stay (maybe?)
It all began about a week ago. You know when you're tinkering on the computer or flipping through channels, but you're not really giving it you're full attention. That's what I was doing the first time I saw Astaire - we shall call him Astaire for his dancing abilities around my shoebox - just half-heartedly surfing the internet when my heart nearly leaped out of my chest. A gray blur darted, I mean darted like bullet, from beneath my dining table/desk to my oven, tucking itself beneath it. Now, I'm not the type to freak out and launch myself onto furniture when things like this happen, but I instantly froze with my hands hovering over the keyboard, eyes glued to the oven. My first though was Holy shit, was that a mouse?. My second thought: Gross. And, well, my third thought: I'm gonna get this mother... again, censoring myself.
So I plotted. I investigated and I plotted some more. I noticed that dear Astaire only risked a run when the shoebox was utterly silent, and I used this to my advantage. Whenever I saw him rear his ugly little head from beneath the oven, I'd clap and scream at him, and he'd run back in. I'd watch him run along the perimeter of the shoebox and duck into a hole at the base of the molding surround my bathroom door. Astaire started getting bold. He popped out at 6pm when he knew I'd be around and could care less whether it was silent or not. He avoided the "humane" traps I laid out for him, literally tip-toeing around them (hence his name). I'd board myself up in my bedroom at night, and wake up to a trap slightly pushed to the left or without the bait but not triggered. Once, he even ran under my sofa right between my feet! And then, then I did scream and curl up on the seat of my sofa. When he slipped between the door frame of my bedroom, I screamed like someone was attacking me until he ran back out. The little.... was taunting me! Flouting the rules right in front of my face!
Just when I thought I'd have to scare him to death, or worse scream myself hoarse, I decided to abandon all humane treatment after resorting to throwing a heavy book in his direction, not caring if he splattered all over my wall (gross I know, but this was day 3 of Astaire's reign, lunacy was setting in!). I laid down those snap traps along Astaire's usual path, all that recon paid off. Sometime early the following morning, I heard a "snaaapppp!" from the safety of my bed.
Ding-dong, the wicked mouse was dead. I don't even know if he was all that wicked. He could've been really nice for all I know, mouse of the month. But I didn't care. I said a few words, tossed him out, plugged up every hole I could find with steel wool and spent the weekend deep cleaning every bit of my shoebox, vacuuming and sponge-cleansing surfaces and corners I never knew existed. It may be a shoebox, but it's my shoebox, damn it.
Goodness, the things I blog about.