Of Mice and... me

The mice have entered death row.

They don't know it yet, but they will be killed in a brutal and horrifying manner: the mousetrap.

Mice will head for somewhere warm, but this year they're late. I don't know how they get in, I live in a two storey house, so anything is possible. But... it's nigh Spring and this is the first sign of the beasties. No matter. They are doomed.

Last year, I laid out poison. That was wrong, in so many ways. The next night after laying down the killer pellets, I was watching television. Then out from beneath the cabinet wobbled an obviously very sick mouse. I stared at it; it stared right back - accusingly, I might add - and wobbled towards the door. It didn't make it.

The next morning, I found it, stiff and cold under the couch, eyes open, blood around it's tiny mouth. Oh, the guilt! The anguish! I had killed a small, harmless creature, and it knew it when it looked at me the previous night. I put it in a box and buried it under the freesias. I imagined it's family starving, somewhere in the house, and other's howling with outrage at my callous and cruel murder of their colleague.

Actually, it wasn't that damn innocent. One of the miniature mongrels had chewed through a wire connecting the oven and fried itself, and the oven. I spent the next week hunting down and disposing of mortal corpses. One, at least, I didn't find until it was in an... offensive condition. It tooks weeks and plenty of incense to get the stink out of the house.

So. No poison. No. I shall use the tried and true method of traps. That way, I know where the beggars have died: right where I put the trap. I shall use small pieces of pear, or a dab of peanut butter to lure them in.

And when they are dead, I shall remove their bodies. I shall try not to feel guilty about knocking them off. This is my home; not theirs. I shall evict them...

And await for next year.