Mouse Attack

To my horror, I spotted a mouse dashing across the kitchen floor.   It should not have been there.  It should never have gotten into the property.  I employ three rather fierce cats who regularly patrol the perimeter.   They are not allowed in the house; they live in the garage. However, their regular patrols have kept us mouse-free for many years.   But somehow, this mouse, and perhaps others, had avoided their patrols and sneaked indoors.

I know from experience that where there is one mouse, there are usually others.  When they invade your property then they operate in gangs, seeking to expand their domain, seeking mouse lebensraum.   It is crucial to respond promptly and counter their incursion.

I called an emergency meeting.   The government might call it a COBRA meeting, and in fact, in my house, I am the government.    The area of operations of the mouse gang was identified, and plans were laid to intercept and destroy the insurgents.

I ordered a same-day delivery from Amazon of their most deadly mousetraps, and so armed, set about planning their demise.

Seven such traps were set.  The black jagged-toothed Amazon traps would appear like tanks on a battlefield as far as the mouse gang were concerned, and that was fine by me, I am a student of Guderian.

They were set with care, with scientific precision.    One was at square leg to the last sighting of the invader; one at silly mid-off; two slips; a short leg and a boundary.  The traps were baited with a variety of succulent treats ranging from peanut butter, dried apricots, pieces of shredded wheat, bread dipped in honey, and of course cheese.   If you’re asking, it was gorgonzola.

Being nocturnal creatures, I set the traps late into the evening and retired to an adjacent room wherein I had one of those recliner chairs and settled down for the vigil.

Three times in the night, I was awoken by the sharp snap of the closing jaws of a mousetrap.    I smiled inwardly, a ruthless smile of victory, for I was sure they were caught.

As dawn broke, I inspected the kitchen battlefield.    The bait in four of the traps had gone, without the trap being triggered.  But three had the dead grey bodies of the invaders caught in their plastic jaws.

Victory, victory, victory!

I gathered the dead bodies in a dustpan and took them out to the garden, leaving them on a tree stump, safe in the knowledge that either the wild birds or the cats would dispose of them in the never-ending recycling of life and death.

I treated myself to a small glass of malt whisky in my now mouse-free house.

I must say, I am rather enjoying my retirement.