Weapons of Mouse Destruction

There was a time when I used to get paid to ensure that food factories, hospitals, fast food joints and 5-star restaurants were pest free. And, frankly, I was pretty good at it.

I loved the investigation part of it. You know- exactly where were these roaches and mice and rats and bedbugs hiding? How did they get in? How are they thriving? And, of course, how can I kill the little bastards as quickly as possible?

You may note that earlier I said I "was" good at it. That word is critical because these days I couldn't kill a mouse with a shotgun if he was glued to the end of the barrell. I know this because I have one in my house that I've been trying to find and murder for a month now. A MONTH. In pest control terms that's a thousand years.

He's a quiet tenant, really, and I don't bear him any specific ill will, but he and I share the same taste for Honey Nut Cheerios and the furry little insurgent gets his before I get mine every morning. This will not stand.

As a former pest control professional, pride will not allow me to call a pest control company, and besides, it does make me feel good to be back on the hunt. Still, while it may feel good, it's not really been very useful. Kind of like masturbation.

Mouseturbation, if you will.

Without getting into a long dissertation on the timely termination of rodents, let me just say that one major difference between rats and mice is that mice are much more curious; much more willing to check out something new. This, then, makes it much easier to dispatch them.

Not my mouse. No, my mouse is a savant. My mouse, I am quite sure, knows more about me than I know about him. Hell, he may very well know how to prove Hessenberg's Theorem, I dunno. What I do know is that he's pissing me off.

I've tried snap traps with all the mouse food greatest hits- peanut butter, Tootsie Roll, marshmallow. I even chucked some lettuce and a bit of tofu on there on the off chance the little fucker was a vegan. No joy.

I imagine him in his fortress somewhere very near my kitchen, map spread out in front of him, helmet on, cigar in his mouth, saying stuff like "Now, I gotta wait 'til the fat bastard goes to sleep, and he didn't get on the treadmill until 5 PM, which means he's gonna be up until at least 2 AM. And it is precisely then that Operation Cheerio will commence, and the spoils of war shall be be mine!" (Sidebar: Most often, when I imagine him mocking me from his stronghold, his voice sounds like General George Patton as portrayed by George C. Scott in the movie "Patton", but other times he definitely sounds like Winston Churchill. I know that's not relevant, but I feel compelled to mention it, and it's my blog so I can do whatever the hell I want with it.)

Where was I? Oh, right.....now, I could buy something called tracking powder. The stuff is particularly nasty because all you've got to do is lay it out near where the mouse droppings are and when he runs by there again - POOF! - he's just run through poison powder. But that seems a bit harsh and is akin to taking the easy way out for (whatever's left of) the hunter in me.

And besides, if I'm honest, although I'm loathing myself for not being able to catch him, I am beginning to admire the fuzzy, betailed little genius a bit.

I wonder if they make little, tiny boxes of Honey Nut Cheerios.......