Operation Mickey

Operation: Mickey began last night. The troops were committed for full battle, no holds barred. For a while now I’ve been complacent, cleaning up mouse poop where I found it and replacing nibbled granola bars, telling myself that the four traps I’d put down were a real step in the right direction. I was doing something about the problem, I told myself. And it worked just enough to keep my delusions going.

Out of sight out of mind traps (OOSOOM from now on) are lovely, because all they require is dabbing on a bit of peanut butter and checking periodically to see if the little red dot has swung over to “Caputered!” or if the red mailbox flag has flipped up. You don’t have to see the critter, the opening is sealed shut so everything is contained, and the only hurdle needed to overcome is the feeling of a few extra ounces in the plastic box.

Death, sanitized.

Franklin, my first mouse, went in a d-CON® No View, No Touch™ trap. He and I met a few months ago, when he darted out from under the couch while I was watching a movie. It was a startling experience for us both. I'm not proud - it took another month before I went to get the mouse traps. But I got them, and I set them, and a little while later, the little red dot was on the other side of the trap and Franklin's body (minus 21 grams) was weighing down the plastic.

The second little one didn't get a name. He wasn't around long enough. I really only met him once he had been dispatched; the little red plastic flag signaling that I'd had another night visitor, now with us no more.

This past month saw an earthquake and a hurricane. Neither of these are typical for New York City, and I'm sure they had some part in driving the neighborhood rodent population up to higher floors. Rain for days and days made the leafy lot next door less idyllic, and the trashcans outside our building looked more suitable to float away on than to live in. It rained cats and dogs metaphorically and literally flooded mice. I don't think it was a coincidence that I started seeing a lot more poops and nibbles right after those events. Also, the landlord did some construction in the apartment next door.

It was a rodent perfect storm.

Three nights ago there was plastic rustling and my girlfriend and I ran over to perch on the couch with flashlights and peer into the kitchen to see what was going on. 

Actually, there was plastic rustling and my girlfriend demanded a flashlight and ran to the couch. I stayed in bed. I joined her after it became obvious that the move-by-move narration wasn't going to stop any time soon, and also because she told me to. We trained our flashlights on the corner of the stove, where a little head was darting in and out. Finally he hauled ass across the kitchen floor and under the dresser/couch (they're abutting). That's when my girlfriend began loudly telling him, and all other mice within earshot, to leave the premises. Immediately. That this was their last chance, after which steps would be taken. They were not welcome here. 

She departed for the bathroom and I returned to the bed. To stare at the expanse of NYC studio apartment that I was readying to defend.

"Yeah, leave. Please go away."

"Don't say please," her voice carried out from the bathroom. "Let them know you mean it."

"Go away." I said.

"Tell them! Be firm!" my coach urged.
"GO AWAY YOU LITTLE ASSHOLES! THIS IS MY HOME, NOT YOURS!"

"Good, baby!"
"I REALLY DON'T WANT TO KILL YOU! PLEASE GO AW-  SCREW THAT, NO PLEASE! YOU GO! YOU GO NOW! GET OUT!!"

Then we went to sleep and I named the mouse Friedrich Douglass.

Two nights ago Friedrich had a dance party with his crew in the middle of my apartment. I woke from a lovely night's sleep to find my unhappy girlfriend who recounted hearing scampering all night long, and the terror of hearing the scampering come closer to and then underneath the bed. This is not something that one wants to hear one's girlfriend say, especially not if one wants one's girlfriend to ever come back. She said she would leave a change of clothes and a toothbrush AFTER the poop ceased appearing, and I vowed to turn my studio into a rodentian Gettysburg.

Next: Old school death strikes.