I can handle flies.
I can handle ants.
I can even handle spiders.
I was not prepared for mice.
Oh sure, the old tenant said they had a mice problem for awhile. “But once the hole was patched up, it was fine,” she told me.
It is not fine.
I even shrugged it off when she mentioned the mice problem at first. I really did. I remember thinking, Oh mice, there’s usually only a couple and they’re small. I wasn’t expecting what she said next: “I was okay until one ran across my face when I was in bed.”
Shut. The. Front. Door.
It ran. Across. Her face.
I cringed when she said it. I cringe just thinking about it.
So imagine my disgust when I saw a mouse run across the living room.
My first instinct was to put on shoes. My next was to call the cat.
Except my dumbass cat was not interested. He’s been a housecat his whole life. He’s never had to hunt. The poor thing doesn’t even have claws. Sure, he sits in the window and taunts the squirrels, but he’s clearly all talk and no bite.
What good is a cat in this situation when he doesn’t even know he should hunt?
This was a startling realization. I recognized I needed to do something. Immediately.
I called my mom.
She’s no stranger to mice. I knew she would have the answers.
She laughed at me and the cat, both of us completely useless in this situation. For a girl who, as a rule, is not creeped out by bugs, reptiles, spiders, rodents, and other creepy-crawlers, my reaction to a mouse in my living room is absolutely laughable.
Mom had the answers: traps, sandwich bags of cat poop, and poison in the attic.
I knew my husband wasn’t going to be thrilled about the prospect of killing anything, especially a poor mouse, but I proposed that plan to him via GChat. He agreed with my plan and added peppermint extract and sonar repellent. We both agreed that traps would be set as a backup.
If this doesn’t work, we’re getting another cat. With claws.
This post is supported by umovefree, a relocation service helping renters find Valley Ranch, TX apartments.