OPINION: Another mousey morsel to muse over
Sep. 1—A mouse got into our salt pig the other day and took a poop. Or rather, left a poop. I've never understood that phraseology.
I have no idea how it lifted the wooden lid of the ceramic pig. Nor do I understand why a mouse would want salt. From my experience, they prefer cereal, flour, cornmeal, raisins, chocolate chips and peanut butter. Especially peanut butter.
A few weeks ago, we caught a couple in traps — one over the fireplace, and another in the pantry. There were pills everywhere in both locations. Unfortunately, the pantry pest wasn't quite ready to meet its maker. When Chris opened the door, he found the mouse had been snapped in the trap. It was still alive, so we showed it to the whitecat so he could take credit. He was all over it, flipping both mouse and trap all over the place. But the repulsive rodent had the nerve to try to bite him, so he dispatched without further ado. I made Chris take it away before WC tore off the head.
I had good reason to be repelled, as I mentioned a few weeks ago. The last mouse he caught, he crunched down on the head before Chris could get it away from him and dispose of it properly. On a subsequent visit to the vet, I explained the incident, and Dr. Hobbs commented, "That's the best part." As I said at the time, how the vet would know about the succulence of mouse heads, I haven't a clue. At any rate, we didn't take any chances with this one; it was already on its way out, anyway.
A few years ago, a rancher friend of mine told me the mouse population had exploded, and he attributed it to the unseasonably warm weather. He told me a number of field mice had fallen prey to his brush-hog in recent weeks.
"With all the gore, it kinda reminded me of that Tom Cruise movie, 'War of the Worlds,'" he said, and then added, "I knew it wouldn't bother you to hear about it, 'cause I read that column you wrote about how you and your cousins flushed mice down the toe-lit."
I didn't bother to point out that jettisoning a small mouse into a septic tank or sewer line is a rather sterile and tidy procedure, not in the same league as shredding a far larger rodent with the blade of a brush-hog.
Many folks depend on a house cat to rid them of the occasional unwelcome house mouse, and until recently, we were among that group. Our excuse for a feline, Zeus — known in some circles simply as "whitecat" — often toyed with them until I took them away and pitched them outside. Otherwise, the critter would have crawled off and died where we couldn't reach it, but its stench could reach us.
In recent years, he developed an unholy appetite, and for those who haven't witnessed a cat munching a mouse, let me just say it's not pleasant. But now, in his dotage, he's not quite as zealous about catching them, though I imagine he would still devour them if given a chance.
There was that time my husband and I were in Palm Springs and our son was home on break, and he called to tell us Zeus had killed a rat that had gotten in through the garage, and then placed the carcass in front of the sofa. Perhaps the cat figured if he didn't dispatch the interloper, it would compete with him for food.
One morning several years ago, the cat decided to get serious. At around 4:30 a.m., I was awakened by a squeaking, like someone was rubbing a couple of pieces of Styrofoam together. This was followed by a crunching sound. I turned on a lamp and aimed it at the cat, who was on the floor near the foot of the bed, head cocked, gnawing on something with studied determination.
I looked more closely. I wished I hadn't. Dangling from the cat's mouth were a tail and a hind leg. "Hey!" I yelled, hoping the cat would take his meal elsewhere. Instead, he increased the speed and volume of his chewing until the last vestiges of the mouse had disappeared.
When we got home from work that evening, I found what I first thought were two lozenges of cat feces on our clean flannel bedsheets, surrounded by a grease spot the size of a volleyball. I summoned my husband, because everyone knows if a cat poops on your bed, the animal is sending a clear message that you've done something to offend it — and I figured the offending party must be my husband.
He looked at the mess, and said, matter-of-factly, "Those are mouse-fur hairballs." Gross, I know, but that wasn't the worst of it. The next morning, the cat began to retch right in front of me and deposited, on the living room carpet, something small and oval — with ears.
At the time, I thought I'd reached my mouse quotient at least for a few weeks, but shortly thereafter, the gals up front began to shriek. A mouse had been spied in the break room, and it had run behind the pop machine. Every time the critter popped its head out, more screams erupted, and the guys in the newsroom rolled their eyes. I would never scream at the sight of a mouse (I reserve my chick behavior for bugs, which prompts eye-rolling, too), so I got a broom and waited. When it poked its head out, I stabbed it with the bristles. We haven't seen it in a few days, so maybe it expired. Then again, we haven't smelled it, either, so maybe it has migrated to another part of the building.
If the warm weather is causing the mouse infestation of 2023, I'm praying for snow. Otherwise, I'm thinking of calling D-Con to see if they need a new spokeswoman. Mice disgust me, too, and I have no problem proving it.
