Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Suicidal mice!

Just another day in urban wildlife central. There I am, minding my own business, chatting to Mother Magoo on the phone and looking at my beautiful Husband-cat clacking away on the computer when suddenly a mouse appears. From friggin' nowhere. What do I do? Start pointing and yelling "Mouse! Mouse! MOUSE! For the love of god look!" I don't move closer, mind you, just stand there and point like a damn hunting dog.

I can tell the mouse is doomed, I've seen dying vermin before and his ass is grass. From the magic of his blink-into-existence appearance, we quickly realize he has fallen from the blasted rafters of our living room to the floor and likely broken his spine. From our previous experience, we know what to do: Put the poor bastard out of his misery. See, that's the human obligation, when you see some creature jacked up through a happenstance interaction with humans, the humane thing to do is free the beast from its mortal coil.

One of Mother Magoo's exes would do that to animals hurt on the road (they lived in the country at the time). I remember her telling me a story about him killing a raccoon wrecked by a car and thinking I could never do that. But that was before last year. A rat-thing was tearing up our flowerbed, so Husband-cat and I had the bright idea to poison him. Yeah. Great plan. The poor thing staggered into the light the next day and lay in front of the living room windows dying and suffering for hours. Which was great for us, because our home office was set up right in front of those windows. We kept thinking he was dead and then he'd twitch. It took us forever, but we eventually we realized it would be far less cruel to whack his head off than to let him keep struggling for life. So out we went with the shovel, me positioning and The Hub delivering the killing stroke.

Coming back to the present, we knew exactly what to do when this suicidal (clumsy?) mouse landed on us. No hesitation, he was scooped up and dispatched in minutes.
The Hub swears this is a rat
I'm generally OK with insect and animal life coexisting with me as long as they don't fuck with me, but here's the thing about suicidal mouse -- if I had been sitting at my desk he would have LANDED ON ME. He probably would have landed on my shoulder and ran all over me. I then would have lost my shit in the world's biggest freakout ever put forth by a pregnant woman. I'm serious. Me and Baby Skullhead would have been rolling on the floor screaming and hyperventilating and it would have taken me days to stop flailing. Husband-cat would have had to knock me out so he could deal with the mouse in peace.

Humane dispatching duties aside, the vermin population has made a tactical existence/home-ending decision. Doing nothing, live and let live is no longer an option. The exciting interlude of the suicidal mouse has now opened up the whole can of "How are we going to relocate/kill/kick out the rest of them?" We heard them scratching about in the sealed off attic space before this and had done nothing. The chatty County raccoon expert had pointed out all the lovely ways they could get in, but up til now we haven't seen them. I feel about vermin same as I do about spiders: You stay the fuck away from me, and I will let you live, respect your existence and even try to remove you alive. However, if you invade my personal space…you have to die. Sorry, but thems the rules. You got to go. Spider on wall? Gets to go to the garden. Spider on the couch next to me? Smashed flat. Exceptions to proximity=life rule: ants (they are one-step above unhygienic robots) and cockroaches (who must always die. Always). We want to have them caught and moved, but if that's not possible…Armageddon's coming.

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