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| Wild though he may be, I bet this never happens to Byron. |
It was a mistake, realized at 2 a.m. later that night.
Fall has brought its usual incursion of pests, seeking shelter and sensing warm drafts and inviting scents emanating from every minute house crack in the neighborhood. Their aggression found a weakness somewhere in our walkout foundation and evidence of their presence was noticed by observers. We’ve trapped a few, but the battle is not won.
A brazen scout caught the corner of my eye while watching the Twins bow to the Reds yesterday. The mouse scampered along the baseline seeking whatever mice seek. If I had my old school Nikon handy, I would have at least six evidentiary photos in quick order for your inspection, but unfortunately I only have an iPhone now. It can do so many things that it takes a while for it to figure out that you want to use the camera now.
By the time I was locked and loaded, the mouse was under the bar fridge gloating, having evaded the humane Victor traps awaiting him and friends, which was very disappointing because I had just got done lathering them with all-natural organic non-gmo unsalted peanut butter.
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| Come On. I dare you. I double dare you |
Back to watching the Twins, it was not long before the vermin had poked his nose out and was looking at me with his beady eyes. Perhaps inspired by Byron Buxton, my new hero, I seized a broom and made a wild swing which would have been most deadly if only I had connected. I did not. Hey, Byron often doesn’t connect either and merely strikes out.
My swing and miss was catastrophic, however. I had failed to reseal the peanut butter jar on the baiting table and now the oily separation was oozing all over the basement shaggy carpet. I fell to my knees, limited the damage, and started scrubbing. Simple water will do on all-natural organic non-gmo unsalted peanut butter products, I learned. Two beady eyes monitored my progress from under the fridge.
Finally returning to the game, I wasn’t the only one losing. But before the end of the next inning, for crissake, there he was again. I thought I had thoroughly cleaned the carpet. Not so. He was feasting like a late-night Elvis with his favorite snack.
Wary of my broomstick, I couldn’t get near, but I inched a trap closer to his last location, thinking he would return. He did. Drunk now on un-salted peanut butter, he ignored the trap, and reveled in his new-found riches, the essence of which he was finding between my scrubbed shag fibers.
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| The better mousetrap is at the right. |
The inspector comes Monday to find the crack and fill it. Maybe there’s more than one place. He’s a professional. He will find it. I will take his picture for you, if I can get him to stand still long enough for my iPhone.
