make no mistake...

make no mistake, mice are NOT as cute in real life as they are in books and movies. pretty sure if i were Cinderella, the mice that made my party dress would have been killed long before they learned to sew. if i were Stewart Little's "mom" he would have been dead LONG before i learned he could talk. or drive a mini car. if Mickey Mouse was in my house before he became well, Mickey Mouse, his little nose would have been snapped in 2 by my peanut butter filled mouse trap LONG before Disneyland opened its magical gates. i can handle spiders. no problem. i can pick up a grass hopper or praying mantis with the best of the boys. i will even voluntarily hold a lizard or garden snake. i grew up with brothers. 4 of 'em. and a shared a room with Marilee, who made me do all the spider killing. but mice are one thing that freaks me right out. when we first moved in to our little cottage in the fields, it only took a day or two to see a mouse run out of our closet, buy some traps, and murder the little sicko. we marked that trap with a little slash mark to keep track of it's kills. that baby snagged 6 or 7 before Christmas, one on new years eve and then laid dormant for about 9 months until October, when the first hints of cold made Mr. Mouse wish for warmth. the Friday before Ecuador, we sat, watching a movie, and from the corner of my eye i saw an intruder, run from our kitchen, around the little corner, and under our TV stand. on my tiptoes, armed with the broom, i watched Preston gently move our TV, then our Wii, then finally the stand, and then i screamed like a 12 year old at a Justin Beiber concert, as the mouse ran right for me and into the kitchen. we couldnt find him. we set traps, and hoped to hear one SNAP soon. we didnt catch him until late afternoon on Saturday. funny thing is, we never see any signs of mice, no little brown gifts, no nests. well, we FINALLY patched the hole we thought they were getting in through, and thought our mouse problems were done until last Friday night. we sat, again, watching a movie, and we both shrieked a little when we saw a teeny, tiny little brown thing run right in to our bedroom. we went in after him, but the wiley little minx outsmarted us and hid rather well under out bed. we moved all of our traps into our bedroom and waited. hoping to hear the beautiful sound of metal against wood. nothing. we saw no sight, heard no sound of him all day Saturday and most of Sunday. we tucked towels along the closet door, and the door, trapping him inside our bedroom, and started to think we had maybe imagined him until Sunday night, he ran right across the door way and under the bed. again. Pres yelled something about getting his pellet gun. he was gonna "kill the little S.O.B." and again, on tiptoe and armed with the broom, (i'm really not much help in these situations...) i watched Preston load his pellet gun, lay on his tummy, and try to scare the creeper out. to no avail. this little fella is a thinker. he knows where to hide. he's not hungry enough to be tempted by our kind offering of peanut butter on a little yellow platter. i want him dead. Pres wants him dead. and he wants us dead. we went to bed. Pres woke up for work, kindly used his head lamp to check for a dead mouse, and found nothing. i woke up for work, checked all our traps, and found, you guessed it, big fat nothing. i came home from work, and again, found nothing. we were invited to dinner at Tommy and Kolbi's house, had a grand old time, swapped a few mouse tales ( pun intended) and came home. i began the routine mouse trap check, and HAPPY DAY we finally caught him. and yes. i did make Preston take him out.

Moral of the story, there's nothing you can do about mice when you live in genola.