The Cheese Stands Alone

Mike's no farmer, and I'm no match for mice, carving knife in hand or no. Which is unfortunate, really, considering the recently revealed fact that we have mice. We keep a cat, and our garage is notoriously mouse-free, so I was sure it was nothing when Leo jumped off my lap and stalked into the kitchen with the determination of a lion and the cunning of, well, a cat. But I followed him and sure enough, I heard a little scratch scratch scratching under the sink. So I opened the door and watched my cat go into wild mode. He stalked for a while, and finally caught the little rodent.

Did I mention that my cat is an idiot? It's really not his fault. He's tame, you see, and really only knows mice as fluffy little toys he likes to bat around, so he couldn't have understood my dismay when he dropped the mouse in order to play with it. The mouse isn't half as dumb as my cat, though, and he beat it like a regular Speedy Gonzales. Leo pouted a lot and spent the rest of the day stalking various objects, some that move, some that don't. Idiot.

We set a trap and caught one (now by "we", I mean Mike. He used peanut butter, and frankly I may throw the jar away. I am, apparently, a pansy when it comes to mice, as you will soon see.) This is good. But that night, Mike went on a scout camp out and left me alone with the mice. And the girls, but they really don't help with the mouse situation. So we were all settled in bed, but I kept hearing so much noise downstairs. Not regular noise, but cat noise. And so now I understand why they call them "cat burglars", because I must have come downstairs with various heavy objects as weapons five times before I figured out what was going on. Leo and the mouse (more like Tom and Jerry, stupid cat) were playing hide and seek. My aversion to mice which need to be exterminated is pretty strong, so I went to bed grossed out and thought Leo would have it handled by morning. I tried not to think about removing the dead mouse, and just hoped I'd be able to do it when I had to.

The morning dawned, and I gingerly stepped down the stairs afraid to land a foot on the poor little mouse. No need to worry. The poor little mouse was closely guarded by the cat, who was still batting around the only partly dead mouse. I now think my cat is far worse than stupid. That's serious cruelty, to torture a mouse like that. It took me four attempts before I was able to get close enough to put a trash can over the mouse. I couldn't bring myself to put it out of its misery. Leo sulked accordingly, and I dry heaved. I was unable to overcome my gag reflex, and almost cried with relief when Carrie showed up to borrow our blower and threw the now all dead mouse out for me.

Leo's back to being locked in the garage at night, and the cheese in the trap is responsible for catching the mice. I feel a little guilty about swatting flies, so killing mice is truly beyond me. Mike sets the traps, he checks them, and he empties them. I put it down to experience, and am grateful to have discovered a little more about my limitations. I don't do live mice--not so much the mouse itself, but the killing of it. I guess I don't do killing. Oh, I know I'm complicit. But I just can't pull the trigger.

I keep thinking about one day too many years ago when I announced my intentions of becoming a nurse, and Aryn snorted. I was quite reasonably offended, but she assured me that I didn't have it in me to be around the pain of people dying. I never really thought she was right about that until this last week. The mice have convinced me where Aryn couldn't. I'm not cut out for hospital work or military service. Or veterinary work, for that matter. Shoot, I couldn't even be an Orkin Man.