My friend Scotty emailed to see how the mouse hunting was going.
As much as I hate to admit it, the mice won a round. ONE round.
My delightfully and tastefully adorned trap, previously mentioned on this here blog, did no good, because these are the teeniest little rodents you've ever seen. Apparently they can climb on top of a trap, eat until they're ready to burst and then waddle away unharmed, stopping only to poop in my kitchen. While I'm not the kind of person who jumps on a chair and screams when they see a mouse, I'm also not the kind to think gerbils are house pets and prairie dogs should be relocated. They're all basically rats, and I see no reason for them anywhere near me. (If you have a reason that they somehow help the eco-system in some manner other than that they provide a home for fleas, please feel free to let me in on it.)
So...I stopped using traps. I went for the slightly less humane, slow, hideous death of a glue trap. And not an ordinary glue trap, either. I purchased a metric ton of extra sticky peanut butter scented glue traps and put greasy bulldog nuggets in the center of each one.
Did they work? Mwah ha ha. Did they EVER. My children now call me Mouse Vader. Mice all over the block are madly running their little miniature mimeograph machines to print itty-bitty posters warning of my singular evil.
Does it bother me to hear their tiny screams in the night as they struggle for their lives, each movement only further insuring their doom? Eh, not really. Not nearly as much as it bothers me to see mouse poop in my house, anyway. Scream away, Mickey. See you in hell.
(Oh, and Scotty - for your benefit - the picture is my two-day tally posted on the refrigerator, to frighten and intimidate potential newcomers.)