The Mouse Transformation
The first time I saw the flash of fur running across my kitchen floor, it was creepy. There was another creature living in my apartment. I was not alone. A visit to the apartment manager and a day later the maintenance guy had taped up every small opening he could find. Oh well, hopefully the barbarians would be held at the gates.
Every once in a while I would hear a scratching sound in the kitchen, at the point of last visual contact. A quick smack on the lower cabinet door, and the sound would stop. For a couple of months the perimeter was holding.
Then one day, sitting on my dilapidated futon, which serves as a sofa, I could have sworn I saw movement over by the book case. Sho nuff, a tiny brown, disease ridden, bubonic plague caring monster was scampering around my living room. Wait a minute how did he get over there so fast, oh no, there are TWO OF THEM!!! Scenes of the movie Willard flashed in my mind. Waking up one morning to see one of the creatures inches from my face, while his partner is nibbling on my ear. Never mind that they were tiny field mice, weighing around 1 once apiece. These were ferocious killing machines.
Walking around my apartment became creepy, would I step on one of them, would it bite me, injecting rabbis, and instant death. They must be stopped. I know being an American I am supposed to want to kill anything in my way, but I grew up in the sixties and I am still a hippie at heart. I went to the hardware store and to my surprise they carried a mouse trap that would capture the little beasts, and keep them alive. So I set out the trap and waited 10 minutes for the trap to fill with mice.
Days wore on and a series of encounters with me comically trying to scare, yell, and cajole them into the trap ended in bitter failure. I imagined them pretending to go into the trap just to tease me, as they laughed and eventually went around this plastic failure. I was getting desperate. I treasure my children and now my teenage daughter would not come over to my apartment anymore, preferring not to be eaten alive by wild animals. Would I have to buy the sticky paper that would end in a horrible, slow death? Would it have to be them or me? Would I have to kill?
Sunday night was the big game. The Chargers were playing the Broncos, and I had invited my son and girlfriend over to watch football, drink beer and eat bratwurst. By this time the two mice, named Quasi and Moto were running around the apartment with impunity. I had to go pick up Sean from work, and I half expected to come home and see Laura tied up, while the mice watched television and sipped iced cold Coronas.
For the next few hours, while watching LT run over, around and through the Broncos, Sean and I danced around the apartment, knocking over furniture and each other while trying to corner and capture the two giggling demons. One was limping, Quasi, so he was easy to catch. We released him out into the wild of the apartment courtyard, which is more like a nature reserve. After a well coordinated, anvil and hammer, ambush, we captured the fast one, Moto. We got him into a shoe box, and could hear the frightened creature screeching inside the box. Heart wrenching, but he would be alive and free, and my apartment would be liberated from pestilence. For a while….
Before the game was into the fourth quarter they where back in the apartment, looking for desert. Holy crap, the live here, I thought.
Monday, home from work, I look at the useless piece of plastic they call a trap. Empty, but wait there is what look like mouse droppings. Sean and I had actually seen the mouse run unmolested through the trap the night before; so I believed the mouse had gone in, ate the piece of cupcake, taken a few mini dumps and was now scurrying around my apartment. Tuesday. I had left the trap on my dinning room table. Wait, what the hell, he is in the trap. Son of a… He had been in the trap from the day before, and had been hiding underneath the two little ramps that go up and down inside the trap. I got you Moto.
I knew from the box the trap came in that mice die quickly if left in the trap for too long so I gave him some bread soaked in water. Don’t worry Moto, tonight you will be far away and free. Later that night, I drove the trap down to the reservoir, about a half mile away. It’s very dark there so I released him by the headlights of my car. I opened the trap, no mouse, I gently pushed down on the two ramps in the trap and he was not there, did he sneak out in my car? I drive the trap home and rinse it out in the bathtub, only to find a mouse swimming in the tub. Ahhhh. Poor thing, he must think I am torturing him. I quickly put the wet mouse in a shoebox. One more trip down to the reservoir, and I sadly released Moto into some beautiful plants, where he can hopefully live a long and happy little life.
I have not seen Quasi for quite a while, but he was limping pretty badly after he somehow managed to make it back into my apartment after the initial capture. I really miss them.
Every once in a while I would hear a scratching sound in the kitchen, at the point of last visual contact. A quick smack on the lower cabinet door, and the sound would stop. For a couple of months the perimeter was holding.
Then one day, sitting on my dilapidated futon, which serves as a sofa, I could have sworn I saw movement over by the book case. Sho nuff, a tiny brown, disease ridden, bubonic plague caring monster was scampering around my living room. Wait a minute how did he get over there so fast, oh no, there are TWO OF THEM!!! Scenes of the movie Willard flashed in my mind. Waking up one morning to see one of the creatures inches from my face, while his partner is nibbling on my ear. Never mind that they were tiny field mice, weighing around 1 once apiece. These were ferocious killing machines.
Walking around my apartment became creepy, would I step on one of them, would it bite me, injecting rabbis, and instant death. They must be stopped. I know being an American I am supposed to want to kill anything in my way, but I grew up in the sixties and I am still a hippie at heart. I went to the hardware store and to my surprise they carried a mouse trap that would capture the little beasts, and keep them alive. So I set out the trap and waited 10 minutes for the trap to fill with mice.
Days wore on and a series of encounters with me comically trying to scare, yell, and cajole them into the trap ended in bitter failure. I imagined them pretending to go into the trap just to tease me, as they laughed and eventually went around this plastic failure. I was getting desperate. I treasure my children and now my teenage daughter would not come over to my apartment anymore, preferring not to be eaten alive by wild animals. Would I have to buy the sticky paper that would end in a horrible, slow death? Would it have to be them or me? Would I have to kill?
Sunday night was the big game. The Chargers were playing the Broncos, and I had invited my son and girlfriend over to watch football, drink beer and eat bratwurst. By this time the two mice, named Quasi and Moto were running around the apartment with impunity. I had to go pick up Sean from work, and I half expected to come home and see Laura tied up, while the mice watched television and sipped iced cold Coronas.
For the next few hours, while watching LT run over, around and through the Broncos, Sean and I danced around the apartment, knocking over furniture and each other while trying to corner and capture the two giggling demons. One was limping, Quasi, so he was easy to catch. We released him out into the wild of the apartment courtyard, which is more like a nature reserve. After a well coordinated, anvil and hammer, ambush, we captured the fast one, Moto. We got him into a shoe box, and could hear the frightened creature screeching inside the box. Heart wrenching, but he would be alive and free, and my apartment would be liberated from pestilence. For a while….
Before the game was into the fourth quarter they where back in the apartment, looking for desert. Holy crap, the live here, I thought.
Monday, home from work, I look at the useless piece of plastic they call a trap. Empty, but wait there is what look like mouse droppings. Sean and I had actually seen the mouse run unmolested through the trap the night before; so I believed the mouse had gone in, ate the piece of cupcake, taken a few mini dumps and was now scurrying around my apartment. Tuesday. I had left the trap on my dinning room table. Wait, what the hell, he is in the trap. Son of a… He had been in the trap from the day before, and had been hiding underneath the two little ramps that go up and down inside the trap. I got you Moto.
I knew from the box the trap came in that mice die quickly if left in the trap for too long so I gave him some bread soaked in water. Don’t worry Moto, tonight you will be far away and free. Later that night, I drove the trap down to the reservoir, about a half mile away. It’s very dark there so I released him by the headlights of my car. I opened the trap, no mouse, I gently pushed down on the two ramps in the trap and he was not there, did he sneak out in my car? I drive the trap home and rinse it out in the bathtub, only to find a mouse swimming in the tub. Ahhhh. Poor thing, he must think I am torturing him. I quickly put the wet mouse in a shoebox. One more trip down to the reservoir, and I sadly released Moto into some beautiful plants, where he can hopefully live a long and happy little life.
I have not seen Quasi for quite a while, but he was limping pretty badly after he somehow managed to make it back into my apartment after the initial capture. I really miss them.
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11:07 AM
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