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  Tuesday January 27th, 2015    

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Hickory dickory boom (02/27/2008)
By Cynthya Porter

I'm being terrorized in my house and I'm sick of it. Yes, I have a teen and a tween, but I'm not talking about them this time.

I'm talking about uninvited guests who lounge around and mooch off my heat and eat my food and generally make this peaceful soul feel alarmingly murderous.

I've never been a killer, but the mice who've sought refuge inside my big old house have made me start fantasizing about sinister things like BB guns and whether the cops would understand if they showed up and my walls, floors and furniture were full of holes. If you're cold and want to hide in an exterior wall until spring, fine. But when you try to drag a piece of warm pizza off the counter, eat my one saved candy bar and sit around playing cards in my breakfast nook, you've really pushed me too far.

Yes, I know, put everything away and set traps. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

The problem, and I'm not too proud to admit this, is that I can't figure out how to set one of those old wooden traps without snapping it on my fingers at least a dozen times. After a half hour of that misery I'd rather strangle mice with my bare hands, if all my fingers weren't broken, that is.

When I do finally somehow get a trap set, those infernal creatures just mock me by licking off all the peanut butter without tripping the bar of death.

So I went to the store and got dummy traps, the kind you just squeeze the back of like a big chip clip and it sets itself.

The problem is that those traps aren't powerful enough to kill mice that have been well-fed on peanut butter. And, feel free to disagree with me on this, but the only thing worse than a live mouse or a dead mouse is a maimed mouse looking up at you with those Fievel Goes West eyes and a disfiguring injury inflicted by yours truly.

I wish I could whack them with a broom at that point, but of course, like an idiot, I feel all guilty and I try to save them.

Right after I tried to kill them.

You get the picture.

I have actually thrown two mice outside and wished them the best, which is stupid because "the best" in their minds is undoubtedly whatever I'm making for dinner, and they were probably back inside before it ever came off the stove.

In fact, the other night it looked like the mouse that was scaling my cockatiel cage for a bite to eat had a little cast on his leg and I'm pretty sure he flipped me the bird.

This, of course, means war. No more Mr. Nice, er, Girl duped by that Disney tomfoolery making adorable characters out of nasty little rodents. No more second chances and guilty consciences. From now on it's all glue traps and poison, and maybe I'll borrow a few cats.

All I can say is thank heavens I don't have a BB gun, because I'd hate to really crack someday and be having this conversation instead with the Winona PD. 


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