Infestation

We recently had some rain here, thereby cementing our "semi-arrid" status. Nothing anyone anywhere else in the US would notice, but as I've remarked, it brings interesting things.

In this case, mice. And not the cute ones wearing glasses and carrying canes, either. Dumb ones, or, maybe they're just arrogant. At the time I'm writing this, I'm multi-tasking, which is all the rage now. Not only am I composing an insightful, timely blog entry, I'm hunting.

Perhaps I need a pith helmet.

This mouse -- or more likely, mice -- disturbs me, but not in the standing on chairs and screaming like a teenager way. It's the audacity of the damn thing. I had a car stolen once and I'll never forget how violated I felt. Someone else was going through, or able to go through, my personal stuff, see the pens I'd collected, the receipts I'd stuffed in the glove box, the cans and bottles wedged under the seat. That disturbed me as much as the loss of the car, and I feel a lot the same way with this mouse.

Dammit. This is *my* house, not his. I don't like him running around in it. He should be in a field of flowers, joining hands with the other mice and singing ring around the rosey. If he were in a forest eating nuts, I'd be a happy camper.

But he's inside. Walking all over my shelves, looking under the couch, resting on top of the couch, and walking right down the middle of the floor. I see him, make a noise, and he scurries off, but now I've more in store.

Traps. Victor traps. The springy ones, baited with actual cheese. When I hear that *snap* I expect I'll jump, but he'll never know what hits him. I hope he learned about them in mouse school and will see them and go pester the neighbors.

They have better food, anyway.