We’re having a mouse war at the Peron Residence. And apparently the “live” traps aren’t all that humane after all.
The first live trap we set, we discovered was missing the next day. Missing! How does a trap go missing? The next day, when I went to take out the garbage, I saw the trap dragging across the garage floor. Well, a mouse was dragging it by its leg.
The second trapping was the most humane. Mark was watching t.v. and he saw a mouse run along the floor near the far wall. He tore the t.v. room apart, but he trapped the little rodent using only his bare hands and a cardboard box. So we released it far, far away at the neighbourhood creek.
The third live trap, thankfully, snapped the victim’s neck. It was dead, dead, dead when Mark discovered it. The trap, though it had quickly halted its captive, was completely empty of the large dollop of peanut butter Mark had used as bait. The mouse’s decapitated noggin had apparently propped the trap into the open position, allowing the mouse’s buddies to safely feast on the gooey treat. At first we were horrified, thinking it was kind of morbid. But, upon further reflection, it reminded me a bit of the funeral and wake when my great grandma passed away. There was drinking and merriment and much filling our bellies. And I imagined the mice in a similar ritual, raising their glasses in a toast, nodding confidently as they spoke, all agreeing that “Bertha would have wanted it this way!”