Mice and I go way back! Growing up in our ground floor apartment in N.Y.C., we lived across from the incinerator. As it turned out, we also were across from the mouse’s favorite abode. ‘Twas my brother’s and my job to shoo them back into the hall with the broom kept near the front door, as my mother was dreadfully afraid of most non-human creatures that wandered into our home.
Fast forward to our house in Tucson. As the old dishwasher was being pulled out, the delivery man made a discovery – the remains of a mouse tucked beneath it. Many years went by. Suspicions occasionally aroused by tell-tale noises or droppings, but never confirmed.
That is, until this year. Watching TV one night with a snack bowl on the floor, my husband noted a nut in a different location. He ascribed it to a mouse. “Of course not,” said I. The next night, bowl laden with goodies alongside the futon on which we were perched, we spied the mouse, snack in paws, headed for the shelter of a large piece of furniture. Caught in the act!
I wish we could say we humanely treated the intruder, but we didn’t. One well-fed mouse was eventually trapped and joined its fellow miscreants – I hope in a mouse afterworld, laden with all the delicacies these little creatures sacrificed their lives for!