Mouse House

When I was a little girl, about age 10, my parents bought a fun Christmas present for me. The Mouse Treehouse was a two-story contraption that included an elevator, a swing, and various treehouse furnishings suitable for a vinyl mouse family.

Mr. and Mrs. Mouse had a set of twins and were dressed in their pajamas. Maybe they were perpetually exhausted after raising two wild and rambunctious babies.

Many years later, while sorting through our family's cedar chest, I discovered a box with a young girl's long-forgotten treasures stashed inside: three thumb-sized dolls with brightly colored hair (orange, purple, green), worn out copies of Black Beauty and Little Women, a plastic statue of Guiseppe Verdi given to me at my one and only piano recital, and Mrs. Mouse. Not sure what happened to Mr. Mouse, the twins, or the treehouse for that matter, but for some reason I could not part with Mrs. Mouse.

So at least I know that somewhere in my past, mice were suitable companions. Not so much any more.

This year we have been fixing up the back yard. Due to the crazy renters behind us and their vicious dogs, we decided to put in a privacy fence. To accomplish this, we had to remove a tall hedge that was overgrown and difficult to manage. We also replaced our worn redwood deck with snazzy composite decking.

Sometime in October, we purchased our usual 40-lb. bag of dog food and stored it in the back of the pantry. Soon it was time to refill the easy-access tub we use for scooping out Tonka's daily meals. When Dave pulled out the bag, little dribbles of dog food followed along behind. He said there was a hole in the bag and slapped a piece of duct tape over it (always the best solution, right?). He figured it was a flaw in the bag; I suspected mice.

A few weeks passed and it came time to fill the tub again. I looked in the pantry and there was dog food strewn all about the floor in the back corner. We pulled out the bag and noticed the duct tape had been gnawed clean through. No question this time. Mice.

Day 1: The mice have been declared enemy combatants. I purchase a set of miniature mousetraps and assign Dave the unenviable task of capturing and removing the tiny interlopers.

Mouse #1 is clever, he manages to remove the bait without setting off the trap. Dave finds the little guy rooting around in the trash can, a Starvin' Marvin looking for something, anything, to replace the missing dog food. Dave quickly snatches up the trash bag and takes off for the dumpster at a nearby school, squirming mouse still inside. Mouse #1 lucked out; that dumpster probably held a veritable feast fit for a rodent king.

Day 2: Mouse #2 and Mouse #3 are sent on a mission to discover the fate of their missing buddy and to bring back dog food. They do not fare as well. Both set off the traps and head straight to mouse heaven. Dave purchases a second set of traps. That evening we both hear unidentifiable noises, probably nothing more than routine, everyday house noises we have learned to ignore. But now it's different, we have become hyper-vigilant. I find myself asking Dave repeatedly, "Did you hear that?"

Day 3: It's early, 4:45 AM. I'm in my comfy recliner drinking coffee, checking emails and fixing to surf the internet when suddenly a movement catches Tonka's eye. He darts across the room toward the laundry area; I immediately call for backup. Dave drags himself out of bed and sets a trap alongside the dryer. Later that day, Mouse #4 suffers the same fate as his two predecessors.

Day 4: This morning I hide in the bedroom with my cup of coffee and the laptop until Dave is ready to get out of bed. The rest of the day is uneventful, quiet. Some might say eerily quiet. After work, Dave consoles me by declaring that since an entire day has passed with no activity, he believes the mice have been vanquished. Later that night, I'm up the hall in the computer room and Dave is watching a sporting event of some sort. Suddenly I hear a loud "Shit!" from the family room. Although I have a somewhat unrestrained potty mouth, Dave rarely curses. This can't be good.

Mouse #5 scoots along the baseboard right next to Dave's chair and zips around the corner into the bathroom. Dave quickly pulls the door shut then returns to leave a trap inside. We work out an alternate plan to perform a live capture with a small bedside trash can, but Mouse #5 has already taken the bait and is snagged in the trap. Unfortunately, he is still alive. Dave takes the trap outside and releases the half-dead mouse over the back fence, into the yard of the renters from hell.

By now Dave is traumatized by all the carnage; he invokes the specter of the 1971 movie Willard. Okay, a bit of an exaggeration, but I share his concern. Tonka, on the other hand, finds all of this quite amusing and in fact thinks we may have invented a great new sport the entire family can enjoy.

Dave resets the traps in the pantry when along comes Mouse #6. He runs out the door, into the kitchen and under the stove. But how did he get in? Surely there can't be any more mice in the house. We blocked all the holes we know of. It's a mystery.

That night I can hardly sleep. I imagine mice scurrying around the bedroom baseboards, lounging on the living room sofa, smoking cigars and playing poker. It's all gone horribly wrong.

Day 5: Thanksgiving. We will be gone most of the day. Dave checks all the traps; the bait is still intact. Still no sign of Mouse #6.

Day 6: Time to take serious action. Dave contacts a professional pest control service. They perform an inspection, discover the nest, and set additional traps and bait. Apparently one bait includes a form of mouse birth control, to keep them from reproducing excessively. Word on the street is that a breeding pair can produce up to 200 offspring in a few short months. I can assure you, none of that hanky-panky ever occurred in my Mouse Treehouse!

We all agree that removing the back yard hedge disrupted a major mouse habitat. Also, it turns out the new deck was built in a way that allows for easy rodent access through the outside crawlspace door. We will work on securing the perimeter.

In the meantime, we wait. I feel sort of bad for the mice. Well, not really. They are not at all like my special friends from the Mouse Treehouse. Mr. and Mrs. Mouse were so benign, so friendly, smiling faces, cute little pajamas. These fellows are much more sinister.

And they will never end up among my keepsakes.

Oh, and Mouse #6? He's still on the lam...