Let me say at the outset it wasn’t my idea. It was a scheme conceived by an
engineer. I don’t mean a train driver; he’s
a brainy type who creates elaborate solutions to simple problems. Our summer cottage is close to nature, and
that includes mice. Once in a while one
of them gets in and scampers about in the loft above where we sleep. With this I can deal.
The solution was a two-pronged attack using the latest
technology. First he would build a
barrier against invasion using cans of mouse-proof foam that he would squirt
into every chink. The foam would harden
into an impenetrable solid. The
propellant smelled toxic, but I suppose it wasn’t. Mice, the engineer felt, are a problem, and
problems are meant to be solved. I
endured the odor without comment.
The second defense was a system of traps, which consisted of
plastic trays full of stickum. The mouse
would wander into the tray and be held fast by the goo. No bait was needed. I felt allowing the poor creature to die of
starvation, or more likely dehydration, was cruel. My sin, however grievous, was one of
omission. It was, of course, my cottage,
but the engineer was adamant about the need and his methods. I allowed the plan to go forward, and when it
had been carried out, I left the traps in place.
During the nights of an entire month Annette and I enjoyed the slumber of the
innocent. There was no scampering of
tiny feet amplified by the floorboards of the loft above our heads. I concluded that the barrier had worked. I
now summered in a mouse-proof cottage, which was a good thing. Then, one night we were awakened by a
terrifying racket.
This was no familiar skitter at which we could smile and go
back to sleep. Something strange was in
the house. We are a family that believes
in the equality of the sexes when there are dishes to be done, but at this
midnight hour the issue was not brought up.
I got out of bed to
investigate. Out at the beach we are off
the grid and live without the benefit of electric lights, but I had a heavy
flashlight that could double as a club.
I seized it and sallied fourth.
The noise was coming from the loft. I climbed the iron ladder and had a look
around. There had been four of the
sticky mousetraps near the top of the ladder; now there were three. I shone the light around, but I couldn’t see
where the missing trap had gone. However,
I went back down and reported to Annette that my reconnaissance had determined the
500 pound gorilla theory could be crossed from the list.
There had been silence while I was moving around, but now
the noise resumed. With the clue of the
missing trap, I was able to identify the cause. A plastic tray was being dragged across the
floor. If we were to get any sleep,
something had to be done. Once again I
climbed the ladder to the loft.
I shone the light systematically, and this time I saw
him. He was a plump and vigorous
creature, but definitely a mouse of the species with which we are
familiar. He had somehow gotten his
hindquarters into the goo and had been dragging the trap around by running with
his front feet. The mouse twisted its
body and looked with terror in my direction.
I was an enormous beast wielding a ray of sunlight that pierced the soft
and comforting darkness. I was the personification
of rodent doom.
I, on the other hand, felt no corresponding thrill of power.
I needed a battle plan. The loft is used
for storage, and an adult human cannot walk about in it fully erect. The mouse was over by the eaves. I could crawl on my hands and knees and reach
him. I could probably overtake him, if he
attempted to flee. I could grab the trap
from the side away from the mouse and carry it with my hand out of range of his
tiny teeth.
There would plainly be difficulties. I imagined proceeding on all fours back to
the ladder with the trap in one hand and the flashlight in the other. I had a
smaller flashlight I could hold in my mouth, but images of the surgical
procedure it would take to remove it from my trachea flashed through my mind. And how was I to get down the ladder?
I could hang onto the ladder with one hand, but I’m not as
agile as I once was. Holding the trap
away from myself during the descent seemed difficult, and I didn’t know what
parts of my scantily-clad body might come within range of the rodent’s ravening
jaws.
I could throw the trap and its victim over the side onto the
floor below, but that seemed cruel.
There was also the danger that the landing would jolt the mouse free,
and I would have the task of chasing a sticky and terrified creature around the
cottage in the presence of a woman whose composure would be severely
challenged.
Of course I could hand the trap down to Annette who could
take it out onto the dunes, where its occupant would eventually exhaust himself
and die a painful and gritty death. I rejected that option without extensive
thought.
I returned to the bedroom. The scraping continued too loud to be
ignored. We had obligations the next day
and needed to sleep. We dressed, locked
the cottage, and beat an ignominious retreat.
It was 2:30 when we sank into slumber in our year-round home.
Aided by daylight, and ready with a revised strategy, I
resumed the field of battle with the dawn. I was armed with a lawn rake to fish
the trap from under the eave and a bag to transport it. I reasoned that the mouse would still be
alive. He was a robust opponent and wouldn’t have starved. I planned to drown him in the ocean.
Annette was shocked at cruelty I have not heretofore displayed, but I thought
the alternate plan of bashing him with a beach stone would be more apt to haunt
my nightmares in the years to come.
The honorable hunter tracks his wounded prey. Even if it’s a
lion that has retreated into a thicket and may charge from hiding, he doesn’t leave
it to suffer. It was with this thought that I mounted the ladder to the
loft.
The trap wasn’t where I’d seen it last. I stalked it diligently. I moved an inflatable bed, two enameled lobster
cookers, and some plastic dishes with seaside designs. And there was the trap. It held patches of mouse fur, but no body parts
or blood. My adversary was free. Presumably he ran through the unblocked
passage and out into the wild.
If he could talk, what a story he'd have to tell – an evil
snare, a sunlight wielding giant, and at last escape. Proudly displaying his
stickiness and bald spots, he would become famous from Bert’s Cove to Bug
Light. Awed mouselings would pass the
tale down the generations. It was he who triumphed, and I raise my glass to
him.
