JUST SETTLING DOWN FOR
A LONG WINTER’S NAP
A Widow Bit -- Christmas Eve 2010
By Mary Koch

            It’d be so nice to have a man around the house,
           But only when I’m dealing with a mouse.

           Generally, I don’t go along with arbitrary gender roles. I don’t think rodent control is any more exclusively man’s work than cleaning toilets is solely the domain of women.

            It’s just that when I open a kitchen drawer and find mouse turds where I’d cleaned only yesterday, I remember longingly the days when I could sink into my husband’s arms and hear him murmur, “Don’t worry, honey; I’ll take care of it.”

            And he would.

            My friends are sympathetic, offering advice that I don’t need. What I need is someone to own the problem with me. Own it and MAKE IT GO AWAY!

            However, anyone with that deep a commitment would have to be a husband or at least a significant other, and I’m not interested in giving up my splendid solitude. So what do I want – a man or a mouse? Well, for now at least, neither one.

            I thought I’d solved the mouse issue a couple years ago. I installed electronic repellants that transmit a high-pitched sound, inaudible to humans and larger animals but supposedly intolerable for mice. Surprisingly, it worked. This year’s generation of mice, however, seems to be tone-deaf. I envision adolescent mice who ran around all last summer with teeny iPods attached to their ears, listening to music so loud (as adolescents are wont to do), their hearing was destroyed. When cold weather arrived, they began invading my house, oblivious to my warning signals.

            While other people have been cheerfully Christmas shopping, I have concentrated on the rodent control department of my local hardware store. The array is mind-boggling. What psycho dreamed up those “sticky” pads that work kind of like fly paper? So the live mouse gets stuck to the pad, and then what? It stares you straight in the eye beseechingly as your prepare to “off” it?

            For queasy types like me, there’s a high-tech disposable trap. You don’t even have to look at the critter after it enters the trap. In fact, you don’t even have to touch the trap. You pick it up by a special handle and toss. But at four bucks per mouse, I can’t afford that level of denial.

            After failing at the humane approach (trap and release), I finally settled upon the traditional (and cheap) spring trap. Painfully catching the tips of three fingers while setting the trap did a lot to harden my resolve. I said a very naughty word and felt a surge of, what was that, testosterone?! With retribution in my heart, I put the trap under the sink, nabbing my first victim within hours.

            The body count is up to three, and it’s been over a week since I’ve seen any mouse “sign.” So on this night before Christmas I happily proclaim, “Not a creature is stirring, not even a … ”

            May you also enjoy a silent night, holy night.