Mice!

We’ve had a mouse infestation. It’s caused me serious moral and ethical problems.

I’ve always believed, and even now continue to believe, that every living creature has at least as much right to be here as I do. Rather than smashing mosquitoes against the wall, I try to coax them from the room. When Western Black Widow spiders misguidedly appear in our bathroom or kitchen, I trap them under a shot glass and liberate them into our welcoming garden, where they can be beautiful, play, weave, and prey on lesser beings to their hearts’ content.

But the presence of mice brings a serious health hazard into our home and, in addition to mouse shit everywhere, the smell of their pee makes me gag.

We tried to coax them from the house by setting humane traps. These consisted of little boxes that have an ingenious pivoting mechanism that traps the mouse as soon as it investigates the bait within. Once captured, we’d relocate the creature to Golden Gate Park, where they’d have a chance of a fulfilling life free from predators like us.

The mice weren’t buying it. They scoffed at the humane traps and continued their little lives untroubled by our efforts to get rid of them. They mated and produced thriving families with visions of outliving the Trump Administration. I’d fall asleep each night imagining the little mousey middle-fingers being raised in my direction.

Then we discovered that they’d stole central chunks from all (yes all) of our winter overcoats for nesting material. War was declared.

We invested in the traditional, horrific snap traps that kill the mouse as soon as it shows any interest what-so-ever in the peanut butter bait.

We caught and killed twenty-two mice of varying sizes within two months. And still they kept showing up.

The town of Hamelin came to mind. It was difficult not to take this personally.

I’d sit at my computer desk late at night and become aware of a mouse rave going on in the kitchen. Dexter, our parrot, was clearly in on the game, feeding the little buggers with his dropped food morsels and intolerably squalid habits. Rufus, our dog, who caught a mouse in Golden Gate Park last week, is oblivious to their presence in our home, and chooses to eat only about 80 percent of his dinner, leaving the rest to whomever might need it.

It was time to bring in the big guns.

We contacted a self-described “family company” with the chilling name of Terminix.

“No problem” they said. “We deal with this all the time. We’ll send someone round.”

James Terminix, kind of hunky, but we had other things on our minds – actually seriously hunky, but ditto – arrived and gave our home an intrusive going-over. 

“Well,” he said, “You have so many opportunities for mice to come and go. We’ll send Esteban and Bobby to take care of it.”

We threw ourselves at his feet. In thanks; feet have never been my thing, paid the jaw-dropping fee, and hoped for the best.

Esteban Terminix arrived the next day. Quite sweet, he blocked up holes in our walls, most of which we’d been unaware, and vowed to come back the next day with reinforcements to finish the job. Which he did. While remaining sweet, he also struck fear into our hearts with information about the reproduction rate enjoyed by our little squatters.

The following day brought Bobby Terminix to our door. Also quite sweet, he placed gruesome glue-traps everywhere, designed to catch the mice in a sticky hell from which escape would be impossible or, at least, pointless. The mice weren’t buying this either. Somewhere in their ancestry, these sticky traps had been met before, and the mouse DNA had been upgraded with the latest operating system recommending avoidance at all costs.

Bobby Terminix mentioned that peppermint oil is distasteful to mice. I purchased a bottle, doused cotton balls with it, and dotted them around the house. Our home now perpetually smells as if someone just cleaned his teeth really well.

The night-time rave in our kitchen continued unabated. Dexter and Rufus now only eat when supervised. At other times their food bowls are placed out of reach of every living being. This pisses off Dexter royally. He retaliates with full-volume smoke-alarm sounds that cause my husband’s online colleagues to assume that I’m a terrible cook. This in turn pisses me off, although I’m still examining exactly why their opinion is of importance. They live in New Jersey for heaven’s sake. 

Being mindful of leaving Rufus’s food bowl unattended, I brought it into the living room while I watched The Tudors, in which humans were being decapitated in the Tower of London or burned at the stake for startlingly insufficient reasons. Suddenly I became aware of a darling, daring little furry creature peering over the edge of Rufus’s bowl, eyeing the leftover kibble with a lust that was clearly inspired by extreme hunger. The urge was almost overwhelming to offer unrestricted kibble- access followed perhaps by some Brie, and maybe a little vanilla mousse to finish. However, I knew the reception that my obligatory confession would evoke, and I resisted.

That resistance cost me a night of tossing and turning. My mind inevitably circled around what life must have been like in the Warsaw Ghetto. I considered that my actions qualify me to add Goebbels to my name.

Bobby Terminix wasn’t responding to anguished texts. Finally, he swung by, with apologies involving a colleague on “family leave” and being overwhelmed with the extra work. More sticky traps were set. One poor little creature was dispensed from one of them. Still the nightly raves continue. 

These little guys are so cute as they go about their business. If only they could realize that the humane traps are the way to go, we’d all be happy. They’d be in Golden Gate Park, snacking on ticks, enjoying the sunshine and easily, with their proven and documented skills, avoiding the hawks, raccoons and coyotes. And we’d be mouse-free.

Alas, it seems it’s not meant to be. Bobby Terminix listened with a stony gaze to my tale of Brie and vanilla mousse. 

“You have to develop a heart of steel” were his words.

I do Yoga every morning now, partly because I have an insanely adorable yoga instructor, but partly because I, too, wish to outlive the Trump Administration, preferably with a somewhat reduced waistline. The mice, however, are generating a level of stress that’s incompatible with “Down Dog” and the “Warrior” stretches. While my conviction is firm that every living creature has at least as much right to be here as I do, I’m reluctantly coming to accept that this right doesn’t extend to my kitchen. 

Andrew Davies has lived on Missouri Street since 1996.