Mice

While digging through my kitchen towel drawer I turned up a dead mouse.  I don’t find them foraging in my pantry; they seem to be nesting in drawers crammed full of cozy fabric—sewing drawers, towel drawers—ugh!  Note to self: Time to do some serious drawer cleaning.

I hate to admit it, but the mice have moved in. They pay no rent and give no notice to any of my eviction strategies. I stomp around upstairs. I plug devices into my electrical outlets that buzz to discourage them.  I’m using old-fashioned mousetraps. Occasionally they sacrifice one of their own in a trap, but it’s a ruse.  For every crunched critter there are litters of critters line dancing behind the sofa.

 I stopped putting out poison, intending to pound a sign into my lawn: Perimeter Patrol Wanted—Feral Cats Only Need Apply.  This problem started when the last cat in the neighborhood died, but none of my neighbors will own up to seeing a spike in the mouse population. This is discouraging. It seems that my house is the party house. It’s demoralizing. I’m outwitted by a piece of fuzz at the end of a stringy tail. It’s disturbing. I lay awake at night while they slide through cracks in window casings, skirt under doors, slither along baseboards and fall into my drawers to slumber in pillow-top luxury.

Too bad Gila Monsters prefer the desert.  It would make my day to hear some lizard lip smacking a mouse kabob.