I’m discovering that home ownership has some delightful perks. Mice, however, are not among them. Without a rental agreement to hold a landlord to, I am forced to deal with murdering these adorable home invaders.
Some may say, “But can’t you just catch them and let them go?” To them, I reply, “Get your ass over here and come get Mickey then!” Because there is no way I’m going to co-exist with a creature that shares my voracious appetite for whole grains, yet does not contribute to the grocery bill.
Also, they poop everywhere. And the little bastard left these little black footballs of pestilence on my windowsill.
Ew. He had to die.
So, a couple of nights ago at bedtime, I laid peanut butter-filled traps in the corners of my living room. As I drifted off to sleep, I heard the satisfying snap of a successful snare.
In the morning light, I tried my best to gently put the filled trap in a Target plastic bag (I thought a brown Kroger bag wasn’t suitable or the occasion). I tried to avoid looking into his jet black eyes, frozen with the mindless joy that he must have felt as he nibbled on the bait, unaware that death was coming for him in seconds via a steel bar from above. I even interred him in a place fitting for a top notch forager – the Dumpster of the seafood restaurant across the alley from us.
Till we meet again, you little jerk.
