I Am Woman, Hear Me Shriek

Let me begin with this. 

I love animals. Growing up, I "dogsat" for neighbors going out of town, free of charge. In grade school I bought horse calendars and dolphin planners at the school store. I desperately wanted a puppy when I was a kid and employed every tactic -- pleading, annoyance, guilt, emotional manipulation -- at my disposal to make that happen. It didn't, even when I negotiated down from dog to guinea pig, but the effort still stands. In the sixth grade, I wrote an essay that won an award from the local chapter of the National Humane Society. I believe my credentials are clear.

Keep that in mind as I tell this tail -- er, tale.

Evening.

I am sitting on my couch, watching Netflix and knitting. A perfectly normal night in. Then, halfway through a purl row, out of the corner of my eye I see something in my kitchen move. Looking up, I notice a sponge fall over by my sink. No big deal. Then,  I see the sponge start to move from side to side. Then I see it dart across the counter top, past the sink, and scurry behind a stack of dishes.

I do not own magical sponges. Especially sponges with tails.

Also, my eyesight is relatively poor.

When I hear news stories about people surviving extreme situations people -- trapped in a mine, held hostage in a robbery, flying a plane when an engine goes out -- I sometimes try to imagine how I would have reacted. I always picture myself being internally nervous but externally level-headed and action-oriented. Just handle the situation. Keep things in perspective. Focus on what to do. That's my mantra in these scenarios.

Now, I have specific evidence about how I would actually react. If you already figured out the mystery of the last night's sponge activity, then you can probably guess my reaction. Which is to SHRIEK AND TWITCH AND JUMP ONTO THE COUCH BECAUSE THERE IS A MOUSE IN MY KITCHEN.

I will never again think of cartoon elephants jumping on tiny stools when a rodent skitters by as silly and over-the-top. I totally get you, Dumbo.

After about ten seconds of shrieking / twitching / jumping, I bolt for my bedroom. I grab the biggest, heaviest shoe I could find, take a deep breath, and sidestep my way back into the kitchen. Looking back, I have no idea what my plan was. What? Was I going to hurl this shoe at the mouse with my rocket of an arm? I can barely pitch a softball to home plate. There's no way I'm going to bonk this mouse from ten feet away. And there's NO way I'm going any closer than ten feet. I dart to the garage, grab a broom, and resume my defensive position in the kitchen, leaving the door to the garage open. Great. Now I'm brandishing a sneaker and a broom. Because I am an adult. And I own this house so I can't move. This is what adults do. They figure out rodent problems. I have a sneaker. I have a broom. This plan is totally going to work.

My plan, you ask? Well, of course I don't want to touch the mouse. Not a particularly pressing problem, since I had long ago lost track of where it actually was. But, even though I can't see it in the kitchen ... I can FEEL its presence. Its beady eyed, scaly tailed presence. Plus I see little pellets of mouse poop scattered across my counter tops. Classy, Fievel. Real classy.

I start by trying to scare the mouse into the middle of the kitchen. I figure, as soon as I know where it is, I can herd it toward the open door so it would run out and into the darkness of the night. I deduce the best strategy to scare it is to slam the broom against cabinet doors, yelp, then jump back.

No go. This mouse can't be intimidated.

After a few failed attempts to rattle the mouse out of his hiding place I start alternating between slamming my broom into things and pleading for reason. 

*SLAM*

"PleasePleasePLEASE.come.out.don't.you.understand.I'll.totally.let.you.go.out.the.door.come.on.where.are.you--"

*SLAM*

"Oh.God.COME.ON.the.door's.right.there.just.go.to.your.left."

*SLAM*

"WHEREAREYOUPLEASELEAVEFORTHELOVEOFALLTHINGSHOLYJUSTGOAWAY."

*SLAM*

*THAT'SITIAMCALLINGMYMOM."

Because that's what adults who aren't really adults and have tried to handle an adult situation and are out of ideas ... do.

My mom talks me off the ledge.

"Honey, what's wrong?"

"Okay so I was knitting tonight and I saw my sponge move across the counter top only it turned out that it wasn't a sponge it was a mouse and THERE'S A MOUSE IN MY KITCHEN AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO AND I WANT TO MOVE AND I DON'T HAVE ANY DOORS SO I CAN'T CLOSE ANYTHING AND I ONLY HAVE A BROOM AND A SHOE AND WHAT AM I GOING TO DO."

"Alright, take a deep breath. It's just a little mouse, it isn't going to hurt you. You probably -- oh, it's just Suzanne, she has a mouse in her kitchen .... no she can't see it ... she said something about a broom ... yeah, I'll tell her Lowe's might have some -- okay, tomorrow morning you should go get some mousetraps -- honey, BREATHE, calm down -- and then you'll put a little piece of cheese on each one and set them where you saw them in your kitchen and it should catch it in a day or two."

"Where should I go to get them?"

"You can go to Lowe's, they should have them--"

"Lowe's isn't open this late I NEED TO GET ONE TONIGHT I CAN'T SLEEP HERE WHAT IF IT RUNS OUT AND IS IN MY BEDROOM--"

"Okay, honey, calm down. You could probably go to Meijer, they should have some and they are open all night, but I don't want you driving if you are so upset--"

"Oh, I'm getting these traps tonight. Okay, I have to go find my other sneaker and go to the store."

"Okay, honey, and tonight just stuff a towel at the bottom of your bedroom door and it won't get in. Let me know how it goes."

"...okay ... thanks ... sniffle sniffle ... I love you."

"I love you to, hun. It'll be fine."

"WAIT.... what do I do once it's stuck in the trap?"

"Just put it in your trash can in your garage."

"... but how?"

"I would just get a bag and turn it inside out and then you don't even have to touch it with your skin-- "

"OKAY. THINGS ARE GETTING TOO REAL. GOTTA GO."

You know, a typical, completely mature, adult conversation regarding a common homeowner responsibility.

Still shaking a bit, I get into my car and start driving to my local 24-hour superstore. My hands are still trembling a bit, so I turn on the radio to distract myself. That's when I hear exactly what I need at this particularly panicky moment: 

Des'ree.

The song is, "Gotta Be."

You gotta be bad         

       You gotta be bold

You gotta be wiser                                            

       You gotta be hard

You gotta be tough                     

            You gotta be stronger

                             You gotta be cool

You gotta be tough                     

                                                       You gotta stick together

All I know all I know love will save the day.”

Des'ree's pep talk is perfect. By the second verse I am literally saying, out loud, in my car, to myself, "That's right, Suzanne. You got this. You GOT this."

I walk into Meijer and go directly to a sales associate wearing a red polo and stocking shelves. This is not the time to wander the aisles and play cool. This is def-com 4.

"Excuse me, where could I found mouse traps?" I aim for nonchalance. I hit strident and a little nauseated.

"Having one of those nights, huh?"

"YES." My facade immediately crumbles. I have to stop myself from crying and throwing myself into him for a hug. Remember what Des'ree said. Gotta be cool and tough, not an emotional wreck and physically assaulting.

He walks me a few aisles down and points to some boxes.

"These are glue traps, so the mouse just gets stuck to the paper."

Here's a personal rule: if you steal my food and poop on my counter tops, I have the right to use your gluttony against you to kill you. I'm not saying that, if a friend comes over, steals some salami and drops a deuce on my laminate, I will immediately stab said friend. What I AM saying is that I may lace the salami with arsenic and let nature take its course.

I'm not here to hold this pest's little creepy paws and walk it outside into a meadow. This son of a bitch had its chance to leave. I tried to negotiate. It refused. Now there's only one option. The nuclear option.

"Oh, I don't want humane traps. I want one that kills it."

“Oh yeah, no problem! Then just use these." He points to a stack of basic traps two shelves up. "These work really well at killing them and they're only 99 cents. Just put your bait right here and set them around. They should catch whatever you have."

These traps have some vintage appeal. They look exactly like the traps in cartoons: wooden base, spring-loaded guillotine ready to trigger. Basic. No fuss. Pragmatic.

But then, once the mouse is dead ... I have a dead mouse in my kitchen. I think back to my mother's comment about getting a bag and turning it inside out...

These are not what I'm looking for either.

"Um, no. What are these over here?" I point to some larger boxes.

"Oh, those are kill traps, too. They work well and they have that nice cover so you don't have to touch the mouse. They're a lot more expensive, though."

I check the sticker. $5.99. Six bucks versus one buck. Only five more dollars to completely avoid having to visually face the death I just caused? 

Worth. It.

"That's okay, I'll splurge."

"Oh yeah. The good thing is, they're reusable, you know. You just open them up and throw out the dead mouse and you can fill them with a new trap."

I decide it isn't worth explaining to him that there will be no "open up and throw out" of the mouse carcass in my scenario. Once the deed is done, this whole Cadillac of traps is going in the trash. I would throw out the entire kitchen if I could.

I thank this knight in a shining name tag and polo shirt for his assistance, grab a couple traps, and head towards the check out line.

Wait.

Bait.

The instructions on the trap say that you can use cheese or peanut butter to lure the rodent to its death. I have both ... but it will be a cold day in hell when I give this monster even a nibble of my Brie or Jif. Instead, I head to the grocery aisle and buy the smallest, cheapest brand of peanut butter I can find. (Peter Pan, if you're looking for bait recommendations.)

Traps? Check. Bait? Check.

I get in the car and search through my iPod for music to listen to on the drive home.

Des'ree? Check.

I put my pop song pep talk on loop and sign along the entire way home. I psych myself up. I pull into the garage, get out of the car, and grab my arsenal of supplies.

Let's do this.

I march into my house, traps in hand ... and immediately shift to tip-toeing as soon as I get to the kitchen. 

No mouse in sight. Great. Be like that.

I squish a dab of what I now refer to as my "mouse bait" peanut butter on each trap, set the trigger, and place them around my kitchen close to little piles of poop. I back out of my kitchen -- you never turn your back on an enemy -- and moonwalk my way to my bedroom, stuffing multiple towels under the door as a last line of defense.

Let me tell you, it is a great night of sleep. A GREAT night.

The next morning.

Dawn.

After procrastinating in my bedroom for as long as I can, I arm myself with a broom and creep out to the kitchen. Both traps still sit on the counter. Both traps empty. Thank goodness. Discarding of a little dead rodent was not something I want to do to kick off the day. But wait … if the traps are empty … that means ....

I bolt for the door.

The upside to these type of experiences is that, while in the moment they are terrifying, the next day they make answering the age-old coworker question, “how was your weekend?" much easier. I arrive at work around eight ... thirty. By nine, everyone in my office suite has heard about my mouse-adventure. Most reply with a mix of horror and a description of their own worst rodent experience. This doesn't help things.

When something worries you and yet you can't do anything about it, people always give you the same advice. Don't worry about it. Stop thinking about it. Put it out of your mind. The whole serenity prayer theory. Here's the problem I have with that approach: constantly forgetting an unresolved problem means that you are destined to constantly remember it. I've always found that jolt of recall way, way worse in the long run. So, the entire day I would be working on a project or sitting in a meeting when, out of nowhere, BAM. MOUSE IN THE HOUSE.

The start of the day drags on. At one point I consider calling my neighbor, telling him that I think I left my water running in the kitchen sink and would he mind going over to my house to check. I figure when he called back to confirm no water emergency he would also mention if he saw a dead mouse splayed out on the counter. Then I realize I don't ever talk to my neighbors. Dammit.

After lunch, I am again relaying my mousecapade to another colleague. She says she also used the same type of trap when she had mice in her house. (Mice? As in … PLURAL?) 

“When I had mice in my house, I used those too."

"You know, even though they're more expensive they seem totally worth it. I was totally fine with paying a few extra dollars so I won’t have to see it once it's dead."

"Well, you'll probably still see something."

"...."

"And you may need to clean up a little blood."

"..."

At this point, reality hits me. Even when the trap goes off, the ordeal isn't over. I was so worried about catching this thing that I hadn't even thought about what I would need to do once it's caught.

I'm a feminist. I believe women are equal to men. I am incredibly appreciative of the work of people for so many years to make progress towards gender equality.

That being said, I would gladly give up my right to vote, my property and 30% of my pay to have a man deal with this. There were some upsides to being a housewife in the 1950's. Don Draper might have drunk like a fish and cheated with every secretary he brushed up against, but he would throw away any dead mouse carcasses once he staggered home.

I consider calling my neighbor, lying to him that I "think I left the water running in my kitchen sink" and asking if he would go over and check. I figure if he spots a dead mouse on the counter top, he'll bring it up. Then I remember that I've never met my neighbors. Great. Is this what suburban life has brought us to? A thirty-one year old woman doesn't know her neighbors well enough to trick them into checking for rodent entrails? It's just shameful.

As slowly as the morning went, the afternoon flies by. I try to find missing emails to answer and forms to sign, but alas, my work is done by five. I drive back home, running through each scenario in my head. Scenario 1: traps are empty, mouse is still at large, and I'm going to have to sleep in my car. Scenario 2: operation mouse massacre was successful and now I have to dispose of the remains. Luckily traffic is a mess on the way home, adding a decent thirty additional minutes to my commute. Normally this annoys me, but today I think of it as the universe helping me out. Maybe if I had arrived home on time I would have walked in mid-trap-snap. I'm pretty sure whatever sounds a mouse makes in its death throes would haunt me for at least a month.

Finally, I'm home. Arming myself once again with the broom, I open the door and creep inside.

The house is eerily silent. I stand by the doorway of the kitchen, not looking but listening. My ears strain to detect any scuttling, half hoping to hear little mouse paws scampering around. Nothing. Silence. Heart racing, I give myself one last pep talk (again, credit to Des'ree), and peer around the door frame.

The traps are all in the same places they were before. No new little mouse poops that I can see. 

Wait a minute. What's sticking out of that one trap -- A TAIL! A TAIL!

WE ARE AT DEFCOM TEN, PEOPLE. THE MOUSE HAS MET ITS FATE. I REPEAT, THE MOUSE HAS MET ITS FATE.

Now things start getting real. This isn't little poop pellets. This isn't thinking I saw a sponge dart across my counter. This is mouse. In a trap. On my counter. Dead. I thought once I had reached this point, everything would feel much better. Nope. Worse. Way worse. Now I have to handle this.

I think back to my mom's suggestion: "I would just get a bag and turn it inside out--"

My mother is out of her damn mind. No way that is happening. 

Okay. I have to handle this. I am an adult. I gotta be cool. I gotta be tough. I gotta be strong. So I do the mature thing. I handle it. I throw the mouse away.

....

Translation of "throw the mouse away":

I get a kitchen trash can, put a black garbage bag in it, and kick it to the counter, just under the mouse trap. I put on sunglasses so I can barely see, grab my broom, and push the trap with the broom into the kitchen trash can, jumping from foot to foot. I then pick up the entire kitchen trash can, dash to the garage, and throw the entire thing into my outdoor garbage bin, shrieking and caterwauling the entire time. I run back inside and continue to flail and shiver for another three minutes.

....

So that should take care of meeting the neighbors anytime soon.

Thus concludes the great Mousepocalypse of 2015. And yes, I still have the second trap out to catch any co-conspirators that may still be scuttling around. I understand that this is rarely a lone wolf situation. Five days later and no accomplice has been caught yet, along with no signs. (Signs = poop.) So either there aren't any other mice, or the ones that are left are stealthier and have better taste in bait.

Now my pantry boasts a special peanut butter jar labeled, “Mouse Last Supper.” And I know what you're thinking. The answer to your questions is "no." I am never — EVER — eating Brie out of my trash can again.

* * *

UPDATE: I just found Mouse #2 in the basement. It's dead already, but still as scary to dispose of as the first one. I threw it away and will be calling a real estate agent tomorrow morning. Clearly, I need to move.