About ninety percent of you are going to think I’m crazy, but I hate killing mice. Understand that I live in the country and that mice are a fact of life. While I’m not claiming my kitchen is spotless that’s not the reason we have mice. We have mice because we live in the middle of a ten acre field full of… you guessed it. Field Mice.
We also have mice because we have a barn that is chock full of old hay and any grain left from the horses and chickens. By now you’d think they would have eaten all that, but there are still mice and they must be getting food somewhere. (Please don’t say ‘yeah, your kitchen dummy!’)
We also have mice because we live in a 200 year old house that’s so full of entry points that if you fill the house with water it would look like a sieve from the outside. Or a sprinkler. Top of a watering can. You get the picture.
I hate killing mice so much that if they didn’t carry disease and POOP ALL OVER EVERYTHING, I’d leave them be. I’m the first one into the kitchen in the morning. Now I suppose I should explain that we use sticky traps because the kind of spring trap that actually catch mice are expensive and break if you breath on them. We used to use catch and release traps, but the dang mice would die of fright in those things and then you have to deal with getting the sucker out and into the trash.
I guess sticky traps are our best option. Or at least that’s what the DH says.
Back to me being the first one into the kitchen. They look at me with those big black eyes that whisper ‘please let me go. I promise not to poop in your sink ever again.’ And then I find myself talking to them in soothing tones in between yelling at my husband to get his butt downstairs and take care of the mouse. They keep making impossible promises until they are carried out of the house. And I feel AWFUL for the rest of the day. And I don’t ask what my husband did with them.
Those bold buggers practically tap dance across the counter at night – with top hat and cane. They are fast and fearless. They pull down their trousers and moon me as they go by. And still I feel like a murderess for killing them. It would gross you out if I told you all the places I’ve discovered mouse poop. And still.
I know, there’s something very wrong with my brain. But in my defense I’d like to show you the similarity between my littlest dog and a mouse. Tell me they’re not related.