As previous posts have noted, we have been subject to an invasion by Mus Musculus Domesticus, or "el mouso"as the Spaniards are wont to say. 3 spring traps, 3 sticky traps and 5 pieces of anti-coagulant bait were to no avail. Our bold little nemesis would spring forth in the evening to scuttle across the kitchen floor or race across the dining room floor. We would rise, anger boiling and driving us into a killing rage, only to be frustrated as he scampered arrogantly beneath the baseboards. This evening, Mindy noticed the enemy as he darted behind a bookcase. Surely this is a dead end, I thought. The baseboards seemed to close to the floor for even a mouse to scuttle beneath, yet when I looked behind, there was nothing. I even prised the bookcase away from the wall a few inches for a better look, but there was nothing.
We sat on the couch, thoughts of vengeance filling our hearts. Lulled by thoughts of another failed attempt at extermination, I was unprepared when Wiff cride "Oh! Mouse" again. He was running across the dining room and hid under the piano. Aha! I though, we will drive him out with music, like the Pied Piper of Hamlin. Wiff hastily improvised some 20th century atonal riffs, since rodents hate Schönberg, this seemed a logical choice. Nothing. No hasty retreat from his musical abode. I peeked under the piano with a headlamp, hoping to spy the dreaded beast. Nothing at the bass end. I moved upwards in register, and still nothing. Finally, beneath the plinky little notes at the high end, I thought I saw a robust looking dust bunny. Upon closer inspection, the dust bunny had moved a little.
Quickly, I outlined the plan to Wiff, who reluctantly agreed to cooperate. Would she prefer to be the Coaxer, or the Smasher? Coaxer she quickly replied. Her job was to use a wooden spoon under the piano to drive him out where I would quickly reduce him a lifeless paste with a hiking boot. As I refined the plan in my mind, I recalled that deep in the recesses of my stored camping gear, there was a blow gun. I ran downstairs, leaving instructions with a very hesistant Wiff to prosecute the rodent with extreme prejudice, should the occasion arise. I tore into my boxes of camping gear, and at the bottom, was able to dig out my blowgun.
Hastily, I assembled the 4 pieces, and pulled a dart out of the holder. I checked under the piano to ensure that my target was still downrange. I put the muzzle of the blowgun up to the edge of the piano, drew in a breath, and expired swift death to the mouse waiting 6 inches away.
We now have a very small addition to our trophy room wall.
8 comments:
For the first time ever, that thing came in handy. What a disgusting story. Kudos to wiff for boldness under pressure and well as her recognition that EVERYONE hates Schönberg so clearly the mouse was frozen in bitter disgust.
who is taking up taxidermy?
That is so gross, but I'm sure it feels very satisfying to actually have killed the little guy. Hopefully they're all gone for good now.
Thank you for your wonderful story-telling skills. I laughed out loud and had to read part of it to my husband. He was impressed that Spiff had a blow gun.
Hail the mighty hunter. I am sure that you have heard the story about us when we were trying to catch one of those dreaded creatures. Margie still takes my name in vain when we talk about our attempt to corner the mouse with a pillow. I am sure that Mindy remimbers the pillow. a rather large yellow pillow for lounging on the floor. That mouse came to that pillow and went straight up to the now terrified pillow holder who with a loud scream abandoned me to hunt the wiley critter on my own. The mouse who had been fattened on our food storage sucummed to a well placed shoe.
Well Done
Wahoo! Great shootin'. Mostly, I'm just happy he's gone.
Sounds fun!
That story just made my day. Now I know who to call when I need an exterminator...or a pied piper!
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