Tuesday morning I decided that enough was enough: the laundry was going to meet its maker. I marched to the playroom/laundry room, set up my computer to watch Parenthood, and filled a glass of water to sustain me through the chore desert. I thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye in the toys, but when I turned my head there wasn't anything. Stupid contacts, I thought.
I arranged the laundry baskets and picked up the first shirt to fold when MOUSE MOUSE MOUSE
A small brown mouse ran across the toys, near the socks, and ran under the couch.
MOUSE MOUSE MOUSE.
It just seemed the right thing to do.
Then I moved to the office one room away, and screamed.
Then I walked into the hallway and screamed.
Then I walked backwards to my room across the other side of the house, did the heebie-jeebie dance, and screamed again.
WE HAVE TO MOVE, was the next coherent thought I had.
The second was that I had to tell Twitter, because this is the kind of thing Twitter can help you with. I immediately received several suggestions.
Torch it, torch it now, said La Yen.
Burn it down, said Stephanie.
Move, said Jenny.
Would you like to borrow a mouser? asked Amelia.
All viable options, people, all of them. I weighed the idea of bringing a cat into my house (the concept never seemed so appealing: why aren't we all cat people if they can kill rodents on command?) I then had to counter-balance crippling dander allergies with the fear and disgust of disease-carrying vermin.)
I went to the store and bought four mouse traps. The better kind: plastic, quarter circle-shaped and just an inch or two wide, they purported to trap and kill the mouse INSIDE the container so you don't have to see or touch a disgusting mouse. I set the traps with peanut butter and push down the lever. Once the lever pops up, you got yourself a mouse there, missy. I set two in the laundry room and two more downstairs and went to an uneasy bed. Well, I went to my uneasy bed after checking the mousetraps twice. Someone on Twitter (again) told me once they caught a mouse within two hours of setting traps.) I was severely disappointed at the lack of instant mouse death and completely skeeved when I finally hit my pillow.
The next morning dawned, and after being convinced out of my bed, I walked to the laundry, and found that the trap had done its job: one dead mouse, contained within the trap. I called Other Half and told him we got the mouse.
"Wow," he said, "I thought it would be harder to catch the mouse."
"Why is that?"
"The movies make it seem so hard. There are entire films about how catching mice is almost impossible. Maybe we just had an exceptionally dumb mouse."
I kept the other traps out just in case it was in a gang and not a lone gunman. None of the other traps have caught a mouse, thank goodness. I couldn't of handled it. We would've had to move.