Brooks Peterson

Monday, Mar. 15, 1999

Uninvited mice give you paws for thought

   In the general scheme of things, rodents have not played much of a role in my life.
   True, when I was a kid I had a hamster named Fritz who lived in a remodeled bird cage. He was your basic surly, uncommunicative hamster, remarkable only for his penchant for biting whatever finger might come his way.
   More recently, our son had a hamster of his own, Willie, who was considerably more personable (if you can say that about a rodent). He didn't bite, and would consent to be handled . . . very, very gently.
   He was also an escape artist, which added some color to our tribal lore. One break-out led to a major crisis. We learned that Willie had chowed down on some rat pellets we had put down in a closet: His little cheeks were stuffed plumb full. We made an emergency run to the vet, who ministered to him and managed to separate him from his lethal snacking materials. And she didn't even snicker.
   Since then, however, we have been rodent-free, and quite satisfied with that state of affairs. Had we but known . . .
   I suppose it was inevitable, what with our house backing up to a vacant lot. You got weeds and brush, you got field mice lookin' for a home.
   And finding one.
   In fairly short order, their presence became unmistakable. There was, er, abundant physical evidence of their presence. Say what you will about mice, their personal habits are disgusting. There's a reason they call 'em vermin, after all.
   In fairness, I should concede that I have learned at least one valuable lesson from our Trial by Rodents: When your spouse opens a cabinet door and utters a strangled cry at the sight of a beady-eyed rodent staring impudently out at her, it is not a good idea for you to collapse in helpless whooping, cackling mirth at the spectacle.
   In short order, we concluded that we were sharing our space not with a mouse, but with mice. A big ol' Life-With-Father mouse family. They were all over the map: in the kitchen, of course, but also in the den, the living room, the master bedroom.
   Reluctantly - we are, after all, children of the Disney generation, having grown up with such endearing animated rodents as Mickey and Minnie - we concluded that our uninvited guests would have to be evicted. Appealing to reason was obviously futile; termination with extreme prejudice was indicated.
   No poison, I decided. Nor was that sticky flypaper-type stuff acceptable: too grisly to contemplate. A clean kill was the only way. Accordingly, we stocked up on traps, and thanks to low technology and the allure of peanut butter, our rodent population trotted off to the great granary in the sky.
   Peace reigned - for a while. But then it came . . . Mickey II: The Sequel.
   This time it was a lone marauder - with attitude. He feared us not at all. He sneered at our mouse traps. He chewed up our spaghetti, and everything else he could nibble, rip or shred his way into.
   And our traps, alluringly set with the peanut-butter concoctions that had proven so seductive to his predecessors? He laughed at 'em. Should you fling open the cabinet door, he'd just sit there, stroking his whiskers complacently daring you to get rid of him.
   We were stymied. However, with rodents and with humans, hubris can ultimately prove one's undoing. Apparently bored with the kitchen fare, he ventured out to the living room, where we have a big bag of Purina One dry food for the dogs. Somehow - perhaps drawing on prior experience with rock climbing - he found his way into it. No doubt he enjoyed himself thoroughly, but when had pigged out royally, he found No Exit.
   Hearing him thrashing about, I opened it a bit - whereupon he did his level best to get in my face. Literally. A spirited runt, I'll give him that.
   Hastily, I shut the bag, toted it out to the yard and gave him his freedom.
   A mistake? Probably. But this was a rodent of distinction. It was my hope that, in return for his life, he'd mosey on elsewhere.
   Perhaps he did. But last night, in the silver drawer, was . . . evidence. If he is back, the gloves will come off.
   No more Mr. Nice Human. This time, it's personal.
   (Brooks Peterson can be reached by phone at 886-3772 or by e-mail at petersonb@caller.com.)