I confronted the intruder in my lovely new Leith home, but it only made me feel guilty
I couldn’t deny their presence any longer
You can ignore a singular mouse.
However, when the sightings become plural, then you have to start thinking about ways to deal with the problem.
Our final straw was when our nephew was staying over last weekend. Unbeknown to us, he’d stuffed a three-quarters-finished bag of salt and vinegar crisps in his trouser pocket.
When he went to bed, and dropped his joggers on the floor, someone - and not me, honestly, because I was asleep - had rifled through and eaten the remains, while shredding the packet into tinsel threads.
Then, on Saturday night - after my husband had already reported about three or four spottings of these invaders, across the last couple of weeks - I caught my first wee furry guy in the kitchen. Not timorous. Gallous. He was creeping around, on his tippy toes, with his furry breeches hitched up. As soon as it saw me, he snuck behind the cooker, like a pickpocket nipping down an Old Town vennel.
There was no more denial. So, it was onto Amazon, to search for humane traps.
My colleague recently caught the mouse that her cat had brought in, with the aid of a Pringles tube, but I think we needed something a bit more professional.
There were some clever-looking creations online. I enjoyed that some of them had accompanying videos that featured the plus-sized models that are hamsters for the demonstration. I hope they got paid in sunflower seeds.
There was one very cheap option that had all the best reviews, and people had even included pictures of their mice in jail, with ruffled mugshot-like expressions that reminded me of the famous picture of Hugh Grant.
These contraptions had garnered thousands of five-star reviews from all over the world, all with titles like “Gotcha McSqueaker!” and “Totalement conquis”.
There was one review where they said they had caught 18 mice in a week. I really pray our problem isn’t that extreme. It’s impossible to tell how many we have, as most mice are brunettes.
As far as bait goes, don’t use peanut butter, the reviews said. You WILL catch a mouse with that, as it’s their - and everyone else's, of course - favourite food, but it’ll be a hassle to clean the trap. Noted. Another reviewer recommended grated walnuts as their murine temptation of choice. I mean, life is too short.
Eventually, two traps came through the post.
I thought about putting some of my expensive muesli inside, but thought, no, too fancy.
Instead, we used a couple of slightly mouldy old cashews, placed them in each, and positioned one near the back door and the other by the oven, where we last saw Mr Breeches.
I think they’d been down for about three hours, before dusk started to fall and there was a large clacking sound from near the washing machine.
“THE MOUSE!” I shrieked, from my workstation upstairs.
I was scared to look, but, there, sitting very glumly inside the container, without having touched either of those past-their-best nuts, was one of our mice. No, THE mouse that I’d spotted.
Unexpectedly, I felt hugely guilty and a bit tearful. I’ve had a couple of tough months, which have required me to be stoic, and the sight of a wee imprisoned mouse made me weepy. It wasn’t going to go home to its glittery and salt-‘n’-vinegar-scented nest tonight, and what if it had babies? And pals. Cousins.
The way it just sat there, resigned, made me feel rotten. It thought it’d found a nice treat and that we were kinder than it had imagined, but it was all a trick. I’m sorry, mousie.
Still, what are the other options? Let them take over, and soon they’ll be watching Netflix on the sofa, while prematurely opening all the advent calendar windows and demanding Deliveroos. And at least we didn’t use the brutal neck-breaking trap, sticky paper or poison.
I reminded myself of the Amazon reviewer who had caught 18 in a week. We’ve got to nip this in the bud.
We took our mouse - Baba, my nephew named him - out to a local park for an extended holiday.
I wondered if a house mouse can ever become a park mouse. He’d have to learn, Ray Mears style
It was strange, carrying him out there in a Uniqlo tote bag. Nobody would guess the cargo. For him, this journey must’ve been like being on the Starflyer in Princes Street Gardens.
Then, by a large pile of dry leaves, we let him go. His action needed that cartoon sound effect that they call the Bongo Run. It's used when a character dashes so fast that its drumming legs are a blur, like Baba did. No last looks. My last sighting of him was his very round hamster-sized rump. I think he’d enjoyed living at our house.
I felt a bit less sad when I saw him go. I think he’ll be okay.
When we walked home, we kept looking over our shoulders, as we had the feeling he might have followed us. Thankfully not.
So, we took the trap home, and reset it, but this time with a cheese and onion crisp and a walnut (not grated).
There have been no captives since then. I keep thinking I can hear the spring mechanism go pop, but it’s my imagination.
Maybe we did just have one mouse after all. It was only Baba the whole time.
I hope that he’s telling the other park mice about his sparkly nest back home.
Comments
Want to join the conversation? Please or to comment on this article.