My house is infested with mice. I mean INFESTED. Mice. Gag. Turds. Gag. Fur on my counter. Gah-ahg.
The mouse (or mice) that has been frequenting our kitchen lately is a pooper. We’ve resorted to storing some non-perishable food in our refrigerator to keep it safe. We also moved our kitchen table away from the wall, removed all chairs and the tablecloth to protect our food that we placed there (the food we normally keep in our pantry). This worked for awhile until…dahm Dahm DAHM… We found evidence of the little booger(s) on our table this morning. Little magical flying pooper. IS NOTHING SACRED???
Over two slices of untoasted bread (because we found out the mouse/mice had been hanging out in our toaster), Lynn and I decided THIS IS WAR.
Our plan of action:
1. Buy a store’s worth of mousetraps. Our house will be a mine field.
2. Buy a tub to shelter our provisions (aka food).
3. Use our secret weapon (our dog) to invoke fear in our enemy.
We also decided to name each mouse as they die, starting with the letter “A” and work our way through the alphabet like meteorologists do for hurricanes. We already determined the name for the first dead mouse and it’s something that I cannot write on this here blog. Think about it for a moment. It starts with “A.”
Below is a snippet from our morning conversation:
Lynn: “What if we placed an extremely large vat of heavy cream on the counter and when they try to eat it, they drown. And as they are floating to the bottom of the vat, they are thinking, “What is happening to me? And what are those other mice doing in here? Why aren’t they moving?!?!?!”
Me: “Wow, you’re serious about this.”
Lynn: “I am really angry right now. They’re just freeloaders, dude. Go and get your own freakin’ food.”