Tuesday, November 23, 2010


It was different when I thought they were rats.

It was ok somehow. Tolerable at the very least.

But this past weekend they began to surface.  One evening, as the kids and I were huddled around the living room, Santiago says, in an unusually (and surprisingly) calm voice, "There's a mouse."

And I'm still a little dazed, only on day 2 of the illness from hell that actually knocked me off all social media for an entire weekend, but I sit up, groggy, squinting, holding my head together and say, "Huh?"

But by that time, Saia's screaming and pointing, climbing up on top of the ottoman, and now Chago's all riled up, but visibly wrestling with himself and his natural instinct to swoop the little thing right up into his arms and coo.

Mommy came in and scooted him into a box with very little effort, as he was clearly drugged out of his little mousey mind, and out to the garage he went, to die a peaceful hallucinogenic death.

But they haven't all gone that quietly.

I've since, evidently, turned into the Dr. Momgele, Attila the Mum, The Mominator of the rodent world, and it's starting to creep me out a little.  I felt horrible last night, watching another little thing stumble out from beneath the wine cabinet, wander over to the little tray of poison, sneak some toxic treats, and trot happily back to his hiding place.

Then sometime after midnight, I heard squeaking.  A lot of squeaking.  Which actually kinda sent me into a panic because I initially thought it was a bunch of mice babies.  But when I turned the lamp on and climbed entirely up onto the arm of the couch in that way that I scold the children not to, I could then see him perfectly.  The cutest, gentlest (read: high as a little kite) furry little thing, staggering and stumbling around.  I was for a second reminded of so many long-forgotten late-night college parties.  But then he squeaked again, bumping into a wall or three.  And then just stood there at some point, and swayed.

So, I grabbed a little box, set it down right next to him, scooted his soft little pliable body into it, and closed it shut.

"Squeak," he said.  And I nearly cried.

Me. The one who catches and releases every single spider or moth.  The one who chases garter snakes out of the yard.  The one who can't stand to see any living thing injured, let alone killed. Ever. Is now single-handedly responsible for the murder of at least 5 of God's furry little creatures.

And I just don't think I can bear it anymore. Not one more. Really.

So, although their entrance routes into the house are temporarily blocked by dust rags and Christmas decoration boxes, I will have to have to have to pick up a live trap (which Bubba is just gonna LOVE) to catch whomever decides to eek his way out for Santa's cookies.

Any ideas on where to release them once I've got them all held hostage?

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