The last week or so, our house has accumulated a couple of unwanted guests of the big-eared fur-bearing variety. No, not hipsters – mice (although in the mice’s favor, while both hipsters and other rodents get into your food, the mice at least don’t smell like pot smoke). These aren’t any ordinary mice, either – these are the kind of mice that decide to go for a stroll across the living room while you’re sitting there watching TV, as if to say, “Ha, ha, you dumb apes – who’s the dominant species now? I fucking own this place, and there’s nothing you can do!” Meanwhile, the dogs bark and go crazy, but Mickey and his friends just dash under the furniture and escape from the clumsy canine hit squad.
After two or three days of this, I came to a decision: I would make our house into a mousey hotel of death. I loaded up on traps, poison bait, and peanut butter, and hauled the near-useless sonic mouse/teenager repellers I’d put away because the damn things did nothing at all.
That was yesterday. By now, the mice are still running around. They have smartly avoided the live-capture trap (despite being seen running behind the furniture where it’s hidden), stolen all the bait from the killing traps, and didn’t even get a buzz from the sonic screwdrivers. The only hope is that they indulged themselves in the poison bait. With my luck the mice have been dosing themselves with a dash of iocaine powder on a daily basis, so that won’t work, either.