Well the invasion has begun. Mice are coming in from the cold - and finding they like it here. Ugh! Winston thinks they're cute, and wants one for a pet, but he's willing to set the traps anyway. I have been able to restrain myself from shrieking every time I see one. I try to limit my outbursts to sensible requests for help: "Clean-up on aisle 3!" or "Incoming!"
I'm not convinced that Winston's and Dear Hubby's hearts are really in the effort, however. Last night, for instance, DH brought home a whole bag full of traps - three different kinds. He and Winston set about baiting, arming and setting them, but there was clearly more of locker-room than man-against-nature about the whole process.
It all started when DH's trap went off in his hand. (No fingers were harmed- permanently - in the making of this story, so feel free to continue, dear reader) Winston, not to be out-done, baited his with peanut butter before trying his luck. Soon it was unclear whether the object was catching mice or competing for the bait-flinging trophy: prizes for Farthest-Flung, Largest Gob, and Widest Coverage.
There was also a good deal of shouting and swearing - at the traps, rather than at the mice. It seemed wrong-headed to me somehow. In the end, the bait-flingers were declared to be environmentally toxic and hopelessly design-flawed. All of those ended up in the trashcan without ever seeing the dark of the under-cupboard. Sigh!
The boys did manage to set all the other kinds, and I thoughtfully provided them with clean-up rags for their target-practice range. They plan to walk their trap line three times a day. So far no luck. Where are those magical toy soldiers and Nutcracker generals when you really need them?
I don't know....Christmas is coming. I'm locking down the marzipan and keeping a pair of large, clunky shoes close at hand.
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