Seventeen days ago I wrote this blog post.
Thirteen days ago I was at Rita’s house. I checked the traps and they were both still loaded but picked clean of the peanut butter I’d baited them with.
Ten days ago they were empty and unsprung again. I baited them again and then I sat with the family in Rita’s room. In the silence of our gathering, there came an awful scratching and clawing from the attic. Something far bigger than a mouse was up there enjoying the residual heat.
Five days ago – empty again. I was beginning to think that Rita was right and that I’d met my intellectual mousey match. But not to be outdone, I upped the ante and wrapped twine around the trigger pad and squished a glob of peanut butter into the nest of string and plastic. Then I took the peanut buttery knife and tapped on the trigger until it was edgy enough that the very thought of peanut butter from the rodent’s mind would set off the trap.
Today at work, Laura’s mom copied us both on a email.
Ann: (2:35) The mouse in the kitchen was finally outsmarted by Aaron’s trap.
Laura: (2:37) This is going to make Aaron’s day.
Me: (3:30) WHOOHOO!!! It was only a matter of time!
Me: (3:34) Having said that, now I feel bad. Not only did I kill him – which is a little sad, but now I fear, like Alexander the Great, that there are no more worlds to conquer. I suppose it’s time to focus my murderous efforts on the ROUS in the attic.
Judging by the racket that thing was making, I’m going to need a bigger trap. Or maybe my shotgun…