Sunday, December 6, 2009
His name is Hubert. I caught him in one of those plastic, "Have-a-Heart" traps, which, I agree with Shawn, is a bit of a cruelty, especially when you leave over Thanksgiving break and then recall the peanut-butter laden trap. I am, of course, glad my husband is Ryan, who holds his hands up in I-have-nothing-to-do-with-this-ness, which means I do not have traps in the basement (AKA, the "vortex of hell") as I will not go down there on my own, but when little mouse poos started showing up beneath our upstairs bathroom sink, I thought, "Aw, rats, I have to do something about this." I'm also glad that my husband does not leave me to do brain-bashing of mice. Instead, he's fully accepting of my field trips to release our errant wildlife. I'm not sure I could motivate myself to do it any other way.
And so I did. A little opaque trap, cemeterily black, a daub of peanut butter and then the lip closed and I picked up, just a wee bit heavier than when I set it down. I discovered the weightiness before bed, and the next morning, Hubert spilled onto our bathtub floor.
This is what I do: I anthropomorphize these little buggers and then fill up with ridiculous guilt. I put down a saucer of water and a spoonful of peanut butter and went about my morning routines, hoping Hubert would fill up; he didn't know it, but his next step was the chilly outdoors. Oh! If I cannot handle it, then don't set the trap, right? Curses.
I did drive him to the cemetery, which is only a few blocks away, and I tucked him beneath a bush and near a building, but I suspect he wouldn't make it. I wanted to give him some chance, no matter the bedraggled conditions, and at best, I suppose he'd make a wee meal for some chilly creature.
I have a sneaky feeling there are many Huburts in our house, though not by the excess of poo. Meryl informed me, after needing to hire an exterminator, that mice are fairly timid, that each male has its territory, that mice are certainly blind-ish and leave poo-trails to find their way home, and mice also leave poo-piles for territory marking. This is the third mouse, unless you count the flying mouse, and I do not: Libby caught one, and Gatsby sent the other from the second floor to the first and I caught it in a tupperware. The third was of cruelty, and the fourth will be less so.