Tuesday, September 25, 2012

So, this happened.

You guys.

Ugh.

It's no secret. We've been having a bit of a rodent problem. Last fall it was mice. Like, A LOT OF MICE ALL UP IN OUR GARAGE. E killed them all or trapped them or some other man thing I didn't want to see. But then this summer we were all of the sudden living in the middle of Ratopolis. We had this huge, disgusting rat tribe living in the flower bed under our rosebush.

Yes, it was every bit as scary as The Secret of Nimh. (Which, coincidentally, I checked out again a few years ago... I figured it couldn't be half as terrifying as I remembered, right? WRONG. That was the stuff of my elementary school nightmares for a reason. Guess what? It was still some of the darkest freaking film I've ever seen. ALL OF IT. So cheers to you, young Heather, for knowing when something was truly to be feared. And damn you, early 1980s animation for being so terrifying.)

Anyway. Rats in rosebushes. Good times. We killed them all.

Well, E killed a few. Two, maybe? One in a trap and one that (we're pretty sure) died a slow horrible death as a result of a bb to the head. We think. But the rest? The rest kept getting snapped in traps every time E was gone for a day or a night or whatever. I ended up having to dispose of them myself so the dog wouldn't eat them, which meant emptying -- BARF -- the traps, and dumping -- VOMIT -- rat bodies in the can, and resetting the traps, etc. That, about five times. I don't really want to talk about it.

Hurley finally decided to act like a dog and he killed one. One stinking rat. Maybe on accident. I can't be sure but I like to give him credit, at least. At any rate we haven't seen a rat since. Our sissy dog is serving a purpose. He's like a bony, nervous scarecrow.

But in that rat saga, I discovered there's one hard and fast rule of rat-trapping: The traps will only work when E is gone. He doesn't mind checking the traps or dealing with the beings we catch... so of course they will only get caught when it's just me, alone in my house, all barefoot and helpless.

Guess what? Apparently that rule is also true of mouse traps.  'Cause we have some. Mice, I mean. And traps. And E's out for the night. And we done caught us a mouse today when we were at work.

Now instead of getting his neck snapped in the trap like a good boy, this lil' fella got his butt stuck.

SO I GET HOME TODAY AND THERE'S STUART LITTLE IN THE GARAGE, TRYING AND TRYING TO RUN AWAY--PRACTICALLY SOBBING WITH DISNEY EYES--BUT HE CAN'T RUN AWAY BECAUSE HIS BUTT IS TRAPPED

We made eye contact. He knew I did this to him. And he looked right into my soul with judgment. His tail is still out the back of the thing and he's going nowhere. Yes, I want him dead. I don't want him to eat our cat food or our walls. But when Jerry is looking at me, pleading for freedom, I'm weak. I mean this is MISTER JANGLES, Y'ALL. All I need is Tom Hanks and a spool and I'd have a Steven King movie.

There's nothing magical about a mouse dying a slow death in my garage, though. With (I'm sorry to admit) a bucket over him, and a heavy jig saw on top so he can't escape before E gets home... because I can't stand to look at him.  I want him to get dead, to be dead... but I can't do that.

No, I'm not posting a picture. You're welcome.

I swear I can hear him out there, under his bucket. It's very Edgar Allen Poe-y up in here tonight.

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