This was no Mickey

Since late fall, my home, at least my basement, has played host to a smattering of unwelcome guests, of the four-legged and decidedly un-cute critter variety.

It took me a couple of weeks to wake up to the fact that those small black bits scattered here and there in my unfinished basement were not, say dried herbs or pieces of felt that my house cleaner had missed (not that she regularly vacuums the basement, but that's a whole other story).

Out came the plastic traps with the V (for Victory? or Vice? or Vermin?) in red on its outer shell and peanut butter as bait, the peppermint from my mother's garden (supposedly something they dislike) and several bags of well-pooped/peed litter from my mother's cat's litter box. Waste not, want not.

Scattered all around the perimeter of the basement, I figured that I had my bases covered, with three different types of ammunition to get these critters and once and for all to extend them a permanent invitation to hell.

Each day entailed a walk about of the entire basement, flashlight in hand, patrolling not only each of the traps, but most of the surface of the basement as well, on the lookout for evidence of new mouse poop. Trust me, after a while you can tell those blacks pellets from a few feet away.

Within the first couple of days, one small mouse was caught. Disposing of it was an ordeal I can't quite discuss yet, as the mere thought of it causes bile to quickly make its way up my throat, ready for a quick projection outwards.

But having been through this hosting of unwelcome guests once before, I knew that mice travelled in numbers, and where there was a baby mouse, mama or papa were not far behind. I kept up my vigil. Light in hand, I patrolled my basement diligently, day and night.

A few days passed, nothing. Another day, still my flashlight revealed only dust. I wasn't ready to celebrate yet. My guts, or bile, were tingling that something wasn't right.

I decided to get down on ground level and check the inside of the traps. What the f*&#? They/it had successfully been feeding on the peanut butter, without triggering the trap. Any of the 5 traps!

Over the next few days, every trap that was reset with new peanut butter, was empty by the next morning, or even by the end of that day. Before I knew it, this mouse/mice had eaten more peanut butter than I had. I was bankrolling the high-end eating habits of f^*(%^#$@ mice!

No more. It was No-Name from here on in. Not that it made a difference. For the next week, the mouse/mice happily ate the No-Name Smooth, and I stuck to the Kraft Crunchy variety.

I was starting to get pissed and frustrated; avoiding my basement at all costs, I could not face another empty trap, with peanut butter gone missing in action .

It was time to implement a new tactic, one of starving them/him/her to death. You ate through my traps, fine, then starve you little buggers.

What exactly was I thinking? As any wise mouse will tell you, if the mountain won't come to Mohamed, then Mohamed will come to the mountain. The mountain, in this case, happened to be a granola bar in my cupboard next to my kitchen sink. I think I almost passed out that day, knowing that a small critter was now patrolling my entire house, and not just my basement.

My knees buckled as I slowly dropped to the floor. Since my legs were of not much use to me, I stuck my head into the cupboard to see what other mountain the mouse had helped himself to, and where the hell the point of entry was.

The opening for the pipes! Not only in that cupboard, but under the kitchen sink as well. Now I was pissed and angry. No 4 inch critter was going to outsmart me.

I ran to Superstore, purchased several steel brush pads (the kind you use to get the worst of the gunk from the bottom of cooking pans), and stuffed every crevice and opening around every pipe in all cupboards in my kitchen and three washrooms. My neighbour also recommended that I trash the plastic mouse traps and use the wood ones from the Dollar Store. If that wasn't enough, she was kind enough to let me borrow a mouse sonar that emits a sound that apparently sends them off in directions other than your home. This was war!

Three days later, the deed was done. It was a mother of a mouse, several inches larger than the baby. More bile in throat, shovel in hand, that too was disposed.

Victory!!!!! The peanut butter was once again for human consumption only in Casa Kalaydjan. Those unwelcome guests were sent off in a garbage dump somewhere, leaving my home human-only territory once again.


Until today.

On my return from my afternoon walk, I passed by my car, parked on my driveway. A gray tail caught my eye. One crushed mouse, guts splashed by my passenger side tire. One day after I returned the mouse sonar to my neighbour.

Coincidence? Luck? I think I just need to lay down.