Wildlife meets Home Life

So, I appreciate wildlife. You know, the cute little bunny that lives in our yard, the squirrels scurrying about, the chipmunks, the birds and even the raccoons - although I'd prefer if they'd leave my organics bin alone thanks-so-much, or if they wouldn't fight at 3:00am. Skunks? I could do without them altogether. Oh and the fishers. I can do without them too. They're a local killer of cats and small dogs around here.

But again, I digress. Wildlife. I like and appreciate it. I even encourage it and hope that I catch a glimpse of at least one species a day.

I also appreciate MY space. Space that is FREE from wildlife, well, you know, the wildlife that I didn't give birth to.

When wildlife crosses the line and enters my space, I'm not as appreciative of it. In fact, my feelings become the opposite. I loathe any little critter that dares to enter my space. Over the years we've had a flurry of 'uninvited' guests. A snake - oh dear lord, I nearly lost my ever-loving mind over that one; a squirrel (there's a funny tale about that one . . . one day I'll fill you all in); moles and mice.

Lots of mice. Ick. They're dirty and conniving and vindictive . . . getting into every little possible crack and corner, chewing everything in their path and pooping all over the place. Heck, I've found poop on the top of a picture frame! Explain THAT one to me?! We had a cat, but it wasn't much use for mice IN the house. Out of the house, that creature brought me all sorts of prizes (he was well known for his ability to catch SQUIRRELS!!!), but in the house, he'd lay there as a mouse scurried past. Heck, I wouldn't be surprised if he hadn't offered that damn thing a nibble of his food (although I'm pretty sure that creature was helping itself anyway) and they were friends. I think he thought it was a pet. However, the cat disappeared years ago, compliments of a fisher.

Because of our winter climate, it's only natural that these small rodents are looking for a warm place to live for the winter. My crawlspace seems as good a place as any, right? I admit, I'm not overly concerned about them being in the crawlspace, because it's not somewhere I go often, and everything in there is securely stored in rubbermaid totes, and more importantly, it's segratated from the rest of the house. Mice behind that wall, us on this side. All is great. See? I CAN be accomodating. BUT . . . we've learned that those mice don't respect boundaries. Those greedy little jerks are always wanting more, so they find the smallest possible crack they can and slip through INTO the rest of my home. *THAT* my friends, is where my hospitality ends.

When the mice are in MY space, I become a lean, mean killing machine. The defender of the fort. Or at least, I dictate it. I don't actually do it. Because that's gross and I'm a girl when it comes to that kind of thing. I don't do vomit and I don't do dead. That's my other half's job. I guess you could say that I'm the queen and he's the royal verminator.

Last year, we were armed with a jar of 'mouse' peanut butter (because the thought of my children eating the same peanut butter we bait the traps with REVOLTED me); many, many traps; many boxes of bromone (souped up warfarin. Or poison); many little tart tins (poison dishes) and rubber gloves (to pick those icky things up when they're dead). As with every fall, we put many dishes of poison in the attic and in the crawlspace. We also baited and set several traps and put them in the 'usual' places - the storage room, laundry room and under the kitchen sink. Deligently we checked them daily, but nothing. Never did we catch anything with that set of traps. Every ounce of peanut butter remained in tact. One by one, we set off the traps (including one that I stepped on (does that surprise you though?!)) through our normal living. We stopped resetting them and carried on. Every trap was accounted for, and there were absolutely no signs of poop. It seemed that we were mouse free. In the late spring/early summer I was cleaning out the storage room and there, tucked under the edge of the freezer was an old trap - one from years ago (we upgraded to a 'better' trap since then. Isn't it sad that we know the ins and outs of traps?). I went to grab it to toss it out, but it was, *ahem*, occupied. With nothing but a fur coat. Yeah, it had been there THAT long. It took me immediately back to a time about a year prior when there was that unmistakable stench of rotting mouse in the storage room. We never found it. Well, not until that moment a year later. We laughed and figured that the mouse population got talking amongst each other and decided that us sadistic humans had left their buddy in that trap as a warning to them. Thankfully they heeded that advice.

Until this year. We got cocky about the fact that we didn't have even one single mouse last winter, so got sloppy about putting poison out and setting traps. Back in November I noticed a few droppings on the floor in the basement. I wasn't overly concerned because we do have a hamster and sometimes when the kids have him out, he poops on the floor. I commented to my other half that we (meaning HE) needed to put some bromone out. He agreed, but never did anything about it. At Christmas, when I was wrapping gifts, I found poop. LOTS of it. In the storage room. I called my other half in and pointed it out. He said he'd deal with it. He did, but still didn't put any bromone or traps out. I forgot all about it, until I heard some scratching the walls a few nights ago. I commented to the verminator that we needed to get on it. Again, he agreed, but he didn't do anything about it.

Until yesterday morning. I found it oddly bizarre that in the middle of our Thursday morning chaos (it's garbage, recycling and organic collection day); getting lunches made; getting everyone ready for school/work; clearing the walkway; cleaning the cars off; etc, that he chose that very moment to drop everything and go dig out the bromone and the tins to deal with this. He made himself run even later than he already was. Weird. I was quickly swept up in the insanity of the morning, so never thought twice about it.

Until this morning.

I'm wiping the counters after preparing lunches for the little people. Suddenly a flurry of activity catches my eye on the floor. I turn and much to my horror, a mouse the size of a large dog is running straight across the floor. He had big horrific teeth that were dripping blood and his eyes had that undeniable look in them . . . he was out for blood. He was going to attack me. He was headed *RIGHT* for my jugular. OK, maybe I'm exaggerating a little wee bit . . . it was actually only about 3" long, and I didn't actually see his eyes or teeth, and maybe he was running the opposite direction from me, but I KNOW he was out to attack me . . . he was thirsty for blood. I could tell by his body language. I just KNOW it. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. In true school-girl fashion, I screamed bloody murder. That mouse scurried out from under the fridge and raced across the floor to only retreat again under the stove. Somehow I ended up on the counter. I'm assuming I jumped, but I don't actually recall it, and no one was there to witness it. The kids came running to see what was going on. But my other half didn't.

Instantly I KNEW why he had dropped everything yesterday to deal with that poison. He'd already 'met' Mickey yesterday morning. After I regained my composure and got myself off the counter, I approached my other half. I think he was nearly in tears from the laughter. While he never laughed right out loud for me to hear, I could tell that he was doing his best not to snicker (because he knows I'd eat him alive).

SO . . . my other half has his work marked out for him this weekend. He is becoming the verminator.

Hasta la Vista Mickey . . . you are going DOWN!!!!! Fangs and all.