The Mighty Mouse can frighten an elephant,,,, or charm a lion,,,, or be ensnared, tossed about, and eviscerated by a cat. The mouse's cousin,the chipmunk, is considered cute but the exopthalmic nervous mouse is considered a pest by most. Beatrix Potter, the author, seemed to be enamored of this rodent that inhabited all the cottages in Lancashire. In her beautiful story,The Tailor Of Glouster, she glorifies the mouse in what can be described as an sophisticated use of the english language in intimate fantastical form. Like many of her stories they were not really for children, but in a category of their own.
I remember one winter visiting the isolated one room cabin of a quiet young man in the north woods of Maine. The nights are long in December. It was cold. The snow was deep and icy, the cabin warm, with wooden walls, and a spongey wooden floor. The odor of woodsmoke permeated the inner atmosphere. The weak light that tinted the wooden interior an ochre-orange came from a couple of kerosene lamps. He lived alone. After talking for a while in the dimness I noticed there were the skins of tiny animals pinned to the wall over a rummage sale sofa. They were the hides of mice. He had been eating them. Like the Mexicans who make a salsa of aphids,,, it is better to eat the enemy and kill two birds with one stone.
My wife is terrified of mice. We live in the country and since the doors and windows of the house are open all day, a mouse can easily sneak in. Once in a while they scurry across the floor like a grey Koosh Ball. If she sees it or hears it she will not enter the room again until the animal has been removed. Usually I can accomodate her with the large "blue pill" or cardoman sized poison pellets. There was a mouse, however, that entered my life that I eventually nicknamed Odysseus for his wiley suspicious character. My wife and I moved out of the house took up quarters in another room on the property. Meanwhile I placed blue pills under the fridge, in the pantry, and behind the sofa. After a week when I took my morning coffee at 4:00 AM I could still hear Odysseus restlessly knawing. We removed the fridge, moved the sofa to search for the blue pills. There they were intact untouched. This had never happened before. Usually a rodent ate the blue bills with relish,,,, soon showing up as tiny blue dots in their neatly packaged droppings. It also seemed the mouse, who I now called Odysseus, would flagrantly come and go as he pleased.
Odysseus began to live in the bedroom leaving his miniature raisins in the drawers where my wife kept her bras. Immediately I went to see Martinez. His hardware store had other means. I bought the cardoman sized pellets and the gooey pads and set them out. After three days all I had to show for it were fresh piles of raisinettes and untouched lures. Back to Martinez to buy spring loaded traps. All he had at that moment were rat sized. I bought them anyway baited them and set them out in various parts of the house. The next day all the bait was gone and the traps were there in ready to decapitate mode. All that was missing was a note from Odysseus mocking my efforts. Once again I returned to the hardware store, this time with Arizmendi. He had the right sized machination for field mice. Once again I set out my trap lines using peanut butter. Once again Odysseus took the bait and absconded unscathed.
My wife by this time was applying pressure to do something. I had to come up with a solution or loose my manhood. I got the idea to use bread. I kneaded the soft inner part of a roll until it was sticky, as if it were regressing back to dough. I then completely encased the plate on the spring trap top and bottom. The bomb was ready. It was time because we were up to our elbows in black rice. The next day I gingerly moved the bureau under which I had planted a trap. There he was, his black lifeless eyes bulging out of his head. I felt for him but at the same time relished my victory. Perhaps the death of Odysseus set back the evolution of mice. His skepticism may have never been passed on to his heirs.
Three days after the death of Odysseus a stray black kitten could be heard howling non stop on the roof of an adjoining house. He was quickly adopted. He, Rayo McQueen, like a black streak in the night began his work in earnest, hanging out by the compost pile eliminating rodents. My wife was elated that Rayo had arrived to save her. My efforts went unrecognized as she gave thanks to one of her santissima Virgins for this feline saviour.
