Of Mice and Me by Trevor Plumbly
The Patter of…
tiny feet has once again visited our place, but not in infant form. Memories of my grandsons’ feet ever being tiny or pattering are fuzzy, to say the least; currently it seems more likely that they were born wearing army boots. Our newest intruders however, are mice.
Now whilst I subscribe to the ‘All Creatures Great and Small’ philosophy, I don’t like mice. Despite the best efforts of Walt Disney and Hanna-Barbera, I find there’s something inherently nasty about the little buggers. The first sighting occurred whilst Pam was enjoying late TV: No.1 trotted across the carpet and bolted under the fridge. We put this down to an isolated visit but two nights later, we had a trio making the same trek, so either No.1 was breeding like the proverbial or word had gone out that Chez Plumbly was a good place to settle.
I googled micey pest things (really) and one method that particularly appealed was the electronic sonic repellent: this little beauty promised that by emitting a high pitched signal everything from flies upwards would do a runner, but there was some doubt about its broad effectiveness and I wanted total annihilation. Next option was a visit to the local hardware store; these are usually staffed by blokey types who should know all about knocking off a few rodents. The young man was surprisingly knowledgeable about such matters and first suggested the tried and true spring trap but neither of us fancied clearing up broken bodies as a part of our morning routine, in short we wanted destruction without turning the place into a funeral parlour for No.1, his descendants and friends.
War Is Hell
We settled on poison and were assured in glowing tones that this number could just about stop a horse and when our new friends nibbled it they would head out and conk it. Back home we carefully prepared the battleground, planting our version of chemical warfare strategically to achieve the highest result. I don’t regard myself as cruel or vengeful, so the prospect of God’s minor creations writhing piteously isn’t high on my entertainment list, but they invaded me, so I bolted out of bed next morning anxious to inspect the carnage. Problem was, there didn’t seem to be any at all. It’s become a frustrating time: Pam is away and with my eyesight it’s hard to know whether I’m surrounded by the decaying remains of the fallen or under siege by hordes of supermice bent on revenge. Yours nervously, Trev.
I’m told cats are the best remedy, but our boy (dog) can’t seem to resodent garden toad alone (I’m sure Ange would say that was a split infinitive or something, but heigh ho). He (that’s Bertie, the dog), just won’t leave the poor little creature alone. It screams and although I’m told, by he who must be obeyed, that the toad will get the message (what’s that all about?), I have to keep removing said toad from said dog’s mouth. So, as to your mice, what do I know? Incidentally, although I love reading your missives (and I do), can’t you get my daughter off her great big fat **rse and help you and Ange to keep this blog going. With love
Hi Marge. Don’t know about the toad, I don’t like them either but I’ve got some spare poison if you feel it would help. Re the blog, we are still a team with Ange coping with minor issues such as truth and facts. I’ll continue with the sods operas and regardless of your comments on the shape of your daughter’s posterior, she still lights up any room she enters, so in the writer’s opinion, when she gets round to penning a blog, it’ll be a ripper! Luv Trev.
Throw a slab of cheese over the fence… worked for me