Survival of the Smartest

We live in the country, right? And among all the little and not-so-little critters living out here along with us are mice. I hate mice. Wouldn't want to feed them to snakes (I hate snakes, too), but I hate 'em. A whole lot. So of course when the weather turns cold, one or more of them tries to move into the house with us. We've tried keeping cats, but they always run off first chance they get. (Could it be the numerous large cat-hating dogs who live here that send them scurrying?)

A few days ago I woke up with an abnormal excess of energy and decided to clean my kitchen -- really clean it, like I haven't done in too many months to remember. I spent hours in there -- which is really ridiculous, considering that it's just a normal size kitchen -- and when I was done, it sparkled.

The next morning I fell out of bed and staggered into the kitchen, looking for chocolate and expecting to be dazzled by the totally clean room, and what did I find? Mouse poop trailed all the way across one countertop.

You see, that's one of the things I hate about mice. They're filthy. Even the coyotes and the deer that use my yard for a bathroom leave neat little piles. They don't scatter it all over creation. But mice . . . it's like they're regular pooping machines. They just toddle long, depositing a drop here, a drop there, a drop everywhere.

Naturally, I dug out the mouse traps and figured out how to set them. (That's always been Robert's job, but he wasn't home, and Mickey and I were.) I dabbed them with peanut butter -- we give them the good stuff before killing them -- and set them along the counter and went about my day, waiting to hear that satisfying crack! that signaled success.

Nothing happened during the day, but then, mice -- at least, most of ours -- are nocturnal. I went to bed that night satisfied that I would awaken to find at least one little body dead in the throes of peanut butter orgasm.

Did I? Of course not. What I found was trails of mouse poop weaving in and around four traps, all still set, all licked clean of peanut butter with surgical precision. What the hell? I reset the traps, again with the Jif, and woke up the next morning to the same situation.

Today I'm setting them again -- with Jif anchoring a nugget of Dog Chow. Much to our dogs' dismay, our little country mice have a fondness for their chow. If this doesn't work, I'm thinking I'll use those sticky, gluey pads all over my counter. Anyone who comes within spitting distance will be in danger of glue overdose, but it will be worth it.

I really hate mice. Rachel9:30 AM