A few years ago I had an issue with mice in the house. One winter they found their way in and decided to set-up shop. I found out about the perimeter breach when I was cleaning downstairs. I moved a blanket in the cat bed and something fell to the floor. At first I thought it was an ear plug… the lighting in the basement aka Pit of Despair is not the best. It wasn’t until I reached down to pick it up and saw it move that I realized…. not an earplug…. NOT AN EARPLUG!
Panic took over. What the frig was it? Where was its mother? And more importantly how was I going to solve the problem of getting my “surprise” out of the house. It took some deep calming breaths to stabilize my heart rate and reengage the thinking part of my brain. My goal… to get the baby picked up off the floor, but not to touch it with my hands. Inspired by some paint stir sticks laying on a shelf nearby I used one stir sticks as a shovel and the other to prod the little pink creature onto my make-shift shovel. There was a small celebration moment when I succeeded, but it was short lived, as I needed to muster all my courage to execute the next part of the plan….
MURDER!
In no uncertain terms could the pinkie stay in the house. That said, there was only one other logical conclusion to its story… death! Oh how I would have preferred delegating this particular part of the plan to someone else, but that is the pitfall of living alone… you get all the jobs… fun right through to natsy!
Sure, I could have left it to the cats to finish it off, but I didn’t have a lot of trust in their abilities to handle the situation, given the thing was found in their bed. Besides knowing them, the pinkie’s death journey would have been prolonged and most likely painful. Bashing it would have been quick, but messy, and more than I could stomach. Therefore I went with the only other plausible option, I quickly dropped the pinkie into the garbage bag at my feet and secured the top to ensure there was no way it would get out. I said prays and wished it a quick and painless death as I carried the bag up the stairs and out into the cold winter morning. I then spent the rest of the day oscillating between guilt, remorse and fear of what was really lurking in my basement.
Ever since that day I have been battling the squeaks. They find a way in. I find the new entrance and counter with steel wool and caulking. Then the squeaks regroup and try again. I swear the one side of my house has more caulking and steel wool than it has siding and stone foundation. I have even gone so far as to toy with installing a moat of Gardner snakes or getting a pet owl to hang out in the basement. The first was quickly parked as that would mean living adjacent to snakes… the second because I would need to get a Falconer’s license.
Although I appear to have been “winning” the war the last few years I can’t help but feel a sense of foreboding every time I grace the entrance to the pit of despair. Each time I carefully tread down the stairs, hyper alert to anything that suggests a squeak is down there.
Flash forward to a few weekends back. I’m doing laundry and for once I decided to take the time to fold and carry up everything that has been washed thus far. I start loading pants, sweats, shirts, hoodies into the cradle of my arm. My arm is piled high with clothing when I see the folded duvet that the laundry was laying on start to move. Surely to God it was a trick of the eye. I reach for some socks and it moves again but more violently. Panic starts to rise.
There is something in the folds…..
Ohhh God…. NOOOOOOOOO!
I’m frozen in place. The movement in the folds is getting larger and more frantic. Whatever is in there is getting closer and is just about to poke its head out of the fold.
I SCREAM!!!!!
I hear the dogs scrabbling over the hardwood upstairs running to get to me. Adrenaline takes over and I turn ready to drop the laundry and run… run until I can’t run any more.
WHY ME!!!
As I turn, primed to commence my 200 yard dash to the freedom of the upstairs, I catch a glimpse of something that stops me in my tracks. There is a piece of thread that is running from the laundry in my arm to the duvet.
What that what????
It turns out it was the movement of my arm that was causing the duvet to move, not some rodent awakened from its warm and cloud like slumber in the pillowy softness of the duvet.
Yes dear reader… I unwittingly managed to prank the crap out of myself.
Even though I know it was a string, I can’t help but be leery as I approach the laundry area these days. It’s going to take me a while to recover. Then again maybe this is the Squeaks upping their game. Tricking me into a false sense of security, only to launch the Mother of all grand coups. If you don’t hear from me in a while, I suggest looking in the basement first… the squeaks might have managed to finally do me in!!!
PS- If you come looking for me, bring weapons. If they got me there is nothing saying they won’t try to get you too!!!
