Of Mice and Woman

At 5 am yesterday Poppy the Brittany decided that there was a mouse in the house. Even worse, it was in my bedroom. And as much as I tried to ignore her, that wasn’t going to fly. She didn’t care how comfy and warm my bed was. Heck, five minutes earlier she had been up there snoring too. But now she was awake, barking and trying to push the canaries’ flight cage, which sits on wheels, around. Poppy’s little and determined but she wasn’t having any luck.

Eventually I got up. Bitching loudly. To prove to the annoying dog that there was nothing under the cage, I slid part of it away from the wall. Imagine both our surprise when a hefty mouse tore out the opposite end and took refuge in back of the dog crates. It’s worth noting that the Dalai the Great Dane did not even notice the mouse underneath her. Or even wake up.

Later it became apparent that in addition to buying a mouse trap, I was going to have to do a full, serious, intensive house cleaning. I didn’t want to. I hate cleaning. Oh, I don’t mind sweeping and doing dishes and stuff like that. In fact my kitchen is quite pristine, but the idea of washing floors and scrubbing the bathrooms makes me run for the hills. Or, more precisely, to my office to write.  And as any writer will tell you, we will do practically anything NOT to write. Cleaning is worse.

But it had to be done.

I’ve had mice in the house before. But please don’t judge completely. I live on what in Los Angeles we call a ranchette. It’s under an acre, but I have two horses in the backyard. All my neighbors also have horses and then some. There is also a small flock of feral chickens that visit my front yard every morning and a rogue Guinea Hen that lives up the block. So mice aren’t unheard of, though I would prefer they stay outside where they belong.

In fact, the first mouse I had, I caught in my kitchen sink. What he was doing there remains a mystery to me.  Still, he was tiny, cute and the first. So I carefully put a glass over him and gently transferred the glass to the backyard where I let him go. I’m pretty sure he beat me back into the house.

The mouse, or its relative showed up a couple of days later in the bedroom, where Poppy, dispatched  it rather quickly. She was a little bummed that her new toy had stopped moving , but she was very, very proud. It took a little time to convince her to let me take away.  I was cringing the whole time, mind you, but if I didn’t move it to the outside trash it would still be there. With Poppy poking the corpse.

The next mouse arrived a few days later, in the TV room. That space is alternately known by one and all as the ‘cat room.’ Because that’s where the cat lives. She doesn’t get along with the dogs, so when they are in her room she hides under the couch. Don’t feel too sorry for her—she has an outdoor catio with a tree and a puffy pillow. Which is a big step up for a cat that was dumped at a barn and lived on mice and rats for the three weeks it took me to catch her.

Obviously she had decided that her days of eating mice were long past. I was sitting watching TV one evening when I saw a tail twitching in the bookcase. The cat refused to acknowledge its existence. So I shooed her back under the couch and called my personal exterminator, Poppy. Ten seconds later the mouse was no more. It was, as they say, a clean kill. This time Poppy was resigned to me taking it away. Yuck.

I know Poppy will eventually take care of the current rodent—if in fact it’s still in the house. I did a thorough cleaning today and even vacuumed the bird cage inside and out and saw no sign of the mouse.  

I mean, it could have gone out the way it came in, right?