It’s hunting season. It’s a time for men and women to dress in camo and walk the woods for their elusive dreams.
But not me, I hunt for the common mouse that invades my house each and every autumn. I don’t know where they come from, but every fall, we are invaded by a family of four-legged vermin. Just like my deer hunting brothers and sisters, I stalk my prey. I set traps, and one by one, I catch them until I catch no more.
It’s not that I am opposed to the little fury things, but they don’t belong in the house -- they’re like cats. That’s why they are called field mice, not house mice. I have a niece who has a hairless rat that looks like a pork chop with legs. Not my idea of a pet, but she’s family and she loves the dern thang. But this is a different story. My mice are not pets and will be treated accordingly. And since I’m more afraid of snakes, I make sure they die some other hideous death. They die by the age old system: a mouse trap.
Set with peanut butter, that loaded spring full of kinetic energy waits for the slightest vibration to release its full and deadly power. It’s pure physics. Not a way I would want to go, but you don’t see me invading anyone’s home.
Dawn, my hunting partner, places a small amount of peanut butter on the little paw print that they always put on the traps. Setting the trap is another story. Considering what it can
In other words, my wife does it.
They are placed along the mop boards underneath my Hoosier cabinet. And the next morning, I find victim number one. I hope that he was done in early in the night so if any family members should be traveling that same highway, they can see the carnage that awaits them.
Dawn takes their invasion as a personal affront. But they are just getting in from the cold. Why they choose me every year is beyond my reasoning, but I’m not to question why, I’m just to kill.
And don’t look for help from Zelda the Wonder Dog. She is too busy lying on the couch to find any other four-legged varmints. Dogs don’t catch mice. Dogs are too busy seeking attention to hunt for mice. Cats are so bored they will do anything for someone to take notice, so don’t get a dog if hunting mice is your game.
The common house mouse (Mus musculus), is a small mammal in the rodent family. They can spread disease, wreck a home’s structure, and generally be a pain in the Š neck. Like my buddy the squirrel, mice can adapt to any environment, like fields, gardens and my freakin’ house.
They carry germs too, so I don’t want letters from my animal-loving friends. I kill them -- case closed. If I did catch them alive, I would donate them to some lab where they can do some earthly good for the sake of mankind. Yes, I would send a mouse to college. I could do that I suppose, but what if labs don’t take strange mice? So I do the next best thing, I place a bounty on their heads. I’m the Tony Soprano of the rodent world.
Sure, they’re cute and have lives and families. Sure, I’ve seen Tom and Jerry, but I always rooted for Tom the cat to destroy the cute Jerry. I don’t care; they are trying to eat my food, and if you ever saw me, you would know how I take that as a personal slap in my face. So I hunt like a man possessed by the demon of the dead. When I do catch them, I scoop them up and place them in the outside trash. Making a martyr? I don’t care. I’m not trying to win the hearts and minds of these disgusting little beggars. I’m stalking their every move.
It’s 6:45 in the morning and Dawn checks traps and informs me that we got one overnight. While throwing it out, my hunting partner says, "thanks for the help." Yes, we are a great combination.
Johnnie Carrier’s wife is the great hunter. He’s just a freelance writer.
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