Would the Real Mouser of the House Please Stand Up?
This morning, someone at our place caught a mouse and it wasn't the feline, who is supposed to be perfectly designed for hunting on such rodentary prey. No, it was my husband, who, it should be noted, has always claimed he has the reflexes of a jungle cat.
He was going down to the lowest basement level of our house, "Markville", if you will, when he saw it there on the landing and without missing a beat, he tossed at it the only weaponry he had readily available to him....his pants. He was carrying pants and a T-shirt; I assume he was taking them down to the laundry room.
He called to me, "There's a mouse!"
And I called, "Where?"
He replied, "I've got him."
"How? In a box?"
"No," he replied, "He's under my clothes."
I had to go downstairs to see what was going on. We pondered putting a laundry basket overtop of the pile and I imagined slipping a piece of cardboard underneath to trap the thing. But Mark simply found a small, foot cubic box that used to contain kitty litter. He held it at the edge of the landing, lifting the pants and swept the small intruder easily into the holding cell.
"Huh," I was quite impressed.
We took him outside to examine him more closely.
"He peed in the box," Mark remarked.
"I think that's a fairly natural reaction. Where do we put him?" I asked.
"Far from the house," Mark replied.
"It would probably be logical to kill him," I began, "But I can't kill him."
"Let's just put him out by the flower garden near the shed."
So we did. And he ran away towards the neighbour's house, which stand's vacant and for-sale.
"He didn't look all that menacing," I mentioned.
"Yeah, more like a pet than a mouse," He added.
I guess we need to be careful. Despite our family's now-proven mousing skills, we wouldn't want to inadvertently end up with a whole mischief of mice as pets.
He was going down to the lowest basement level of our house, "Markville", if you will, when he saw it there on the landing and without missing a beat, he tossed at it the only weaponry he had readily available to him....his pants. He was carrying pants and a T-shirt; I assume he was taking them down to the laundry room.
He called to me, "There's a mouse!"
And I called, "Where?"
He replied, "I've got him."
"How? In a box?"
"No," he replied, "He's under my clothes."
I had to go downstairs to see what was going on. We pondered putting a laundry basket overtop of the pile and I imagined slipping a piece of cardboard underneath to trap the thing. But Mark simply found a small, foot cubic box that used to contain kitty litter. He held it at the edge of the landing, lifting the pants and swept the small intruder easily into the holding cell.
"Huh," I was quite impressed.
We took him outside to examine him more closely.
"He peed in the box," Mark remarked.
"I think that's a fairly natural reaction. Where do we put him?" I asked.
"Far from the house," Mark replied.
"It would probably be logical to kill him," I began, "But I can't kill him."
"Let's just put him out by the flower garden near the shed."
So we did. And he ran away towards the neighbour's house, which stand's vacant and for-sale.
"He didn't look all that menacing," I mentioned.
"Yeah, more like a pet than a mouse," He added.
I guess we need to be careful. Despite our family's now-proven mousing skills, we wouldn't want to inadvertently end up with a whole mischief of mice as pets.
Note: To any potential visitors. We believe this was an isolated incident. I suspect that I have left the front door open one too many times.
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