Cohabiting
It's like this. The Christmas before last, I was away for nearly two weeks. When I came back I found tea leaves scattered round my waste bin, and some more on the worktop. When I had recovered enough from travel fatigue, I realised that I don't use loose tea, so it's not tea leaves. Also, a banana in the fruit bowl had tiny little teeth marks all round one end. Immediate conclusion - a mouse has been in. Obviously.
Well, the weather was bitterly cold, and I thought I could kind of accept that a mouse was in my kitchen, and when the weather was warmer it would probably go outside again. We could cohabit. After all, I had pet mice as a kid.
Just to be sure, I checked on the internet. Shock horror! Mice are incontinent; they wee all the time, including on your worktops. They carry horrid pathogens on their feet from running about in the drains, and their fur is covered in greasy germs, which rub off on your cupboards and worktops.
Before I had unpacked my suitcases I emptied all the kitchen cupboards, cleaned all them with disinfectant cleaner, emptied the bin and cleaned it, and put my stuff back in the cupboards. Then, just to be sure, I put a piece of chocolate on a piece of kitchen roll on a cupboard shelf, and another on the worktop, and went to bed. Next morning, the chocolate had gone. Both pieces. So it wasn't a passing mouse, it was one with serious intentions of taking up residence. I decided that if the choice was me or him, it had to be him. I had to dispose of him. Kill. Euthanase. Murder. Execute. Assassinate. Commit mouseicide. It was a phase in the evolution of mice - those who learn to stay outside can survive.
Alan, the most pacifist, dedicated non-killer of anything living ever, helped me to shop for a mousetrap. The only one available was the old fashioned wooden one with a killer snap thing. I got two. I tried to set them, and nearly lost my forefinger, they were so powerful, so he set them for me, baited with chocolate. Then he went home.
The next morning, sure enough, there was a dead body in the mousetrap. Really, really dead. It was either a very large mouse or a very, very small rat. I prefer to think of it as a mouse. And I had to dispose of it. I toyed with the idea of just chucking the whole thing away, but the web site had pointed out that there is rarely an infestation of one mouse, it's usually a family, so I figured I might need it again.
I phoned Alan to tell him the good news, and he said, 'Oh dear, he was probably out looking for food for his family of baby mice, who are at home in the icy cold waiting for a father who will never return, starving to death.' Well, that helped a lot. In the end I realised I had a deeply ingrained streak of sheer survival instinct, and I disposed of the bod with a large wodge of kitchen paper.
However, in real life there is never a neat ending. Not long after this my central heating system began to play up. The plumber came out three times and changed various valves and other bits before concluding that there was nothing wrong with the boiler. The problem must be in the piping system, which is all under the floor, and he would have to start looking for it by taking up the carpets and the flooring underneath. At £40 an hour.
The first attempt uncovered a pipe with little teeth marks in it. It was repaired and the vermin man came to lay bait. Next day - the pressure on the boiler dropped again, and the boiler cut out. The plumber's second attempt, and more chewed pipes were discovered. Repaired. Next day, again, the pressure dropped, the boiler cut out. Third attempt,,,more teeth marks and a repair. That was the last one, all within a short distance of the heat of the boiler in the airing cupboard, which was on the other side of the wall from an outside air brick with a tiny hole in it. The boiler settled down again, but by now I hate the entire mouse population of the western world.
In the end my uninvited guest had the last laugh from beyond the grave - my plumbers bill came to nearly £900. I hear ghostly mouse laughter and the sound of money being sucked out of my bank account every time I open the airing cupboard door.
Well, the weather was bitterly cold, and I thought I could kind of accept that a mouse was in my kitchen, and when the weather was warmer it would probably go outside again. We could cohabit. After all, I had pet mice as a kid.
Just to be sure, I checked on the internet. Shock horror! Mice are incontinent; they wee all the time, including on your worktops. They carry horrid pathogens on their feet from running about in the drains, and their fur is covered in greasy germs, which rub off on your cupboards and worktops.
Before I had unpacked my suitcases I emptied all the kitchen cupboards, cleaned all them with disinfectant cleaner, emptied the bin and cleaned it, and put my stuff back in the cupboards. Then, just to be sure, I put a piece of chocolate on a piece of kitchen roll on a cupboard shelf, and another on the worktop, and went to bed. Next morning, the chocolate had gone. Both pieces. So it wasn't a passing mouse, it was one with serious intentions of taking up residence. I decided that if the choice was me or him, it had to be him. I had to dispose of him. Kill. Euthanase. Murder. Execute. Assassinate. Commit mouseicide. It was a phase in the evolution of mice - those who learn to stay outside can survive.
Alan, the most pacifist, dedicated non-killer of anything living ever, helped me to shop for a mousetrap. The only one available was the old fashioned wooden one with a killer snap thing. I got two. I tried to set them, and nearly lost my forefinger, they were so powerful, so he set them for me, baited with chocolate. Then he went home.
The next morning, sure enough, there was a dead body in the mousetrap. Really, really dead. It was either a very large mouse or a very, very small rat. I prefer to think of it as a mouse. And I had to dispose of it. I toyed with the idea of just chucking the whole thing away, but the web site had pointed out that there is rarely an infestation of one mouse, it's usually a family, so I figured I might need it again.
I phoned Alan to tell him the good news, and he said, 'Oh dear, he was probably out looking for food for his family of baby mice, who are at home in the icy cold waiting for a father who will never return, starving to death.' Well, that helped a lot. In the end I realised I had a deeply ingrained streak of sheer survival instinct, and I disposed of the bod with a large wodge of kitchen paper.
However, in real life there is never a neat ending. Not long after this my central heating system began to play up. The plumber came out three times and changed various valves and other bits before concluding that there was nothing wrong with the boiler. The problem must be in the piping system, which is all under the floor, and he would have to start looking for it by taking up the carpets and the flooring underneath. At £40 an hour.
The first attempt uncovered a pipe with little teeth marks in it. It was repaired and the vermin man came to lay bait. Next day - the pressure on the boiler dropped again, and the boiler cut out. The plumber's second attempt, and more chewed pipes were discovered. Repaired. Next day, again, the pressure dropped, the boiler cut out. Third attempt,,,more teeth marks and a repair. That was the last one, all within a short distance of the heat of the boiler in the airing cupboard, which was on the other side of the wall from an outside air brick with a tiny hole in it. The boiler settled down again, but by now I hate the entire mouse population of the western world.
In the end my uninvited guest had the last laugh from beyond the grave - my plumbers bill came to nearly £900. I hear ghostly mouse laughter and the sound of money being sucked out of my bank account every time I open the airing cupboard door.
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