Rob Versus Rodent

My husband is a genius. He has found a new way to trap the overabundance of mice that have recently invaded our crawl space. We thought we would let nature run it's course and tried throwing in the various cats  - it's not like we don't have lots to choose from - and slamming the crawl space door behind them, but they were all equally incompetent. They just sat and yowled to be let back out.  I can understand with Mowgli, because the poor little bugger spends half his life being dressed up and is probably going through an identity crisis. He actually has his own clothes. My mother-in-law brought over a Santa suit for him, and Lindsay bought him a bee costume. You have never seen a cat so humiliated. I'm probably going to have PETA knocking down my door soon, at least it will make a change from Children's Aid.

Anyway, I digress, back to my genius husband and his brilliant idea for catching mice. He now deliberately leaves the bin of dog food open and sits back and waits for the mice to hop in. You always know when he has made a successful catch; first the sound of the crawl space door being flung open followed by a triumphant cry. The exuberance is determined by the number of rodents he has apprehended. He was particularly animated on the two occasions he plucked out an obviously pregnant mouse, and is still congratulating himself on those momentous seizures. The capture is always followed by a victory lap through the house and out the back door. This is usually accompanied by pleas of "Oh, it's so sweet. Can we keep him, please, please please ?"  That is actually from me, not the kids. Of course the answer is always some variant of a resounding NO! 

Perversely I actually like mice, I think they are quite sweet - but not when they are running rampant through our crawl space. In fact I used to have pet mice. At one point we had thirty-two of them. Who knew that two mice can produce up to seventeen offspring every three weeks ? My mice keeping days came to an abrupt and violent  end one weekend, when my father-in-law paid us a visit, and unbeknown to us, (and quite by accident I'm sure) allowed the cats access to the room where we housed the mice. These weren't the dysfunctional cats we have now, they were the previous generation of consummate mousers and they had been salivating in vain for months, just waiting for a chance to hone their skills on the incarcerated rodents. So when that opportunity presented itself in the guise of my father-in-law, they were ready. Rob still laughs about it today, the carnage of overturned cages and the cats lolling nearby with full bellies and bloodied whiskers. I was not as amused. As pets go, that episode in our life was a dismal failure.