I’d been in the new apartment, with furniture more or less in place for fewer than 24 hours, when I saw it: the mouse, casually sneaking along the corner of the living room, like I wasn’t there.
I screamed like I’d seen a human wielding a knife instead of a small rodent, and leaped off the couch, grabbing the closest things I could find: a spray bottle of bleach and a broom. I then proceeded to chase said mouse out of the room spraying bleach and trying to crush it with the broom, all the while screaming, “I will kill you and all your kind!” at the top of my lungs.
I sincerely hope my Dominican neighbors didn’t think I meant them.
The death threat was to be an idle one.
I picked up mouse traps the next day, and placed them strategically against the walls, as I’d read you should do to kill a mouse. I placed all open food in the fridge, no matter how sturdy the packaging.
The mouse showed up again the next night, sauntering past the trap as if to say, “[expletive deleted] you AND your trap!”
The mouse grew bolder, going so far as to appear in the hallway, in the daytime, while I had girlfriends over for brunch. That time, there was an audience for the screaming with the broom and the spray bleach.
You realize, mouse, that this means war.
I consulted with my former college roommate, who had constructed elaborate traps for her smart and bold mouse-trap –avoiding rodent.
I put a trash can with bleach water next to the oven, just under a precariously placed paper towel tube with peanut butter on the end placed on top of the oven, in whose vent the mouse appeared to be living.
The mouse left a few turds next to this contraption, as if to say, “nice try, [expletive deleted].”
At this point, I decided to name the mouse. Not name it like a pet, but like the filthy disease ridden nemesis it was.
My sister has a dog named Penny Lane, and my mom has a dog named Lucy (as in, in the Sky with Diamonds).
So the obvious choice was, of course, Yoko Ono.
Because like Yoko Ono, the mouse was unwanted and was ruining the
I next tried the cottonballs soaked in peppermint oil (mice hate the smell, according to the Interwebz), which kept Yoko at bay for about a week, and had the added benefit of making the place smell really pretty. Even after re-soaking the apartment in minty-freshness, Yoko reappeared one night after a house guest very kindly made some cookies.
If you give a mouse a cookie, he’ll ask for a glass of milk.
If you put the cookies safely in a sealed container, leaving nothing but the sweet, sweet scent of cookie goodness, the mouse will poop on your stovetop in open protest like a giant [expletive deleted].
And now, it seemed, we needed a more permanent solution.
Michael and I have been yearning for a pet to fill the void of cuddles when we are away from each other, and also to litter our home with fur and cuteness and meme fodder and also to teach someday children how to be kind to animals.
So I found Sweetie through Purrfect Angels of Inwood, which pairs rescue kitties with foster and forever homes.
Sweetie lived up to her name when I met her, but in the vein of Beatles references, was renamed Abbey, as in Abbey Road.
The newest addition to our family is right at home, and even if she ends up not being a mouser, her presence (and litter) alone should deter Yoko from future late night oven visits.
Welcome home, Abbey.
|i can haz mouse?|