*not to be confused with A Rat’s Ass
Writing about the mice over the weekend, it occurred to me that I had written about said creatures here previously. Sure enough, last October we had them, too. The first few years we lived here, never a mouse. There were about a dozen feral cats that roamed the neighborhood in those days, but no more. You know what happens when the cat goes away.
Late Saturday night, I saw a mouse. Ran behind my chair, around the obstacle course of books, DDR, shoes, etc., that had accumulated in the family room, and went behind the entertainment center. I went to bed and delivered the bad news to Jif. The next morning, I woke up first, and asked him to reassure me that the mouse wouldn’t be out playing in the broad skylight daylight in the family room. He provided that assurance. Wrong. There it was. So I yelled for him.
Jif came downstairs and staked out the mouse, with a broom in his hand. The last time there was Jif and a mouse and a broom, the mouse was whisked out the back door. This time, not so much. Jif whacked the mouse, in a Sopranos kind of way. When I came into the room and asked, “With the broom?”, he said we could no longer call it a broom. It was a weapon, and needed a fitting name. We decided on the “Tony Blundetto“, after the psycho, rageaholic massage therapist cousin of Tony Soprano.
We settled in for coffee before going to pick LG up from her youth group retreat, when what to my wondering eyes should appear but another damned mouse!? Peeking out from under the couch. So Jif went out and got mousetraps. The kind that snap and the kind that gently trap. The next mouse could go the easy way or the hard way, his choice.
All day, we were hypervigilant, looking for that second mouse. It never appeared. But we heard nothing from the traps. Last night, just before bed, Jif checked one of the “humane” traps. There it was. CAUGHT! As Jif was heading out the door with the mouse in its little house, I asked where he was taking it.
“No! It’ll just come right back!”
“Should I take it out to the storm drain . . . ”
“No! Take it across the street . . . and up the steps . . . take it to the school . . . no drive it out to a farm and let it go . . . ” I called this after him as he headed out the door with the thing.
A few minutes later, he was back, mouseless. “So where’d you take it?”
“I let it loose in the park.”
“No, really, I let it loose in the park.”
“You walked to the park that fast?”
“No. I drove.”
“Get OUT! You drove the mouse to the park?”
“Yea. He didn’t look good. He wasn’t moving nearly as fast as he was before. But then . . . his brother was murdered this morning . . .”
“Oh, this is getting blogged.”