Thanks to the cold weather, the rectory has again been inundated with a plague of mice of dimensions unmatched since Moses was slugging it out with Pharaoh. The miserable little critters get into everything. Flour, rice, cookies, chips, bread, potatoes—you name it, they’ll eat it.
As the weeks have passed, they have become bolder and bolder. No longer is the sack and pillage of our home restricted to the hours of darkness. The cheeky beggars have started to conduct daylight raids on the kitchen.
Charlotte is not one to take this sort of challenge lying down. She has marshaled her forces (namely myself and Casey (the Scottie Dog)) to confront and slay the alien invaders.
This, I lament to say, has been much easier said than done. The mice in our house are quite superior specimens of the species. They are such remarkable survivors I fear they may be in the process of evolving into cockroaches. And this adds urgency to the struggle.
The prospect of our home becoming a battlefield for evolutionists and anti-evolutionists is bad enough. But imagine how inconvenient it would be if the U.S. Department of the Environment were to endow our mice with the same protected status as the Spotted Owl and the Kangaroo Rat.
Not that our mice need the government’s protection. They are perfectly capable of looking after themselves, thank you very much. These mice are positive Houdinis. They routinely evade my cunningly laid traps, neatly stealing the bait in the process.
It doesn’t seem to matter how ingeniously and deadly the trap, the canny little blighters effortlessly outwit it. Nor does it matter how fragrant and tempting the bait—they positively adore Brie, but don’t seem too keen on Danish Blue—they pull it off the trap to thumb their noses at me.
Casey, I regret to say, isn’t much help. Just like poor old Chip, her late companion, she’s perfectly happy to chase mice. And, again, like Chip, her purpose, however, is not to kill them but to cultivate their friendship. The mice, I am happy to say, aren’t keen to reciprocate.
Casey, unlike Chip, has yet to make contact with a mouse. Once Chip cornered a small, sleek, and decidedly chubby young mouse and invited it to play. The mouse mutely declined his offer so Chip gingerly stretched out a forepaw and prodded it.
Stubbornly the mouse stayed put. Disgusted with its lack of sportsmanship, Chip stalked off.
At Charlotte’s prompting, I decided that the best course of action would be to pick the mouse up and take him to the other side of Manor Road, far away from the rectory.
The ungrateful creature, however, was not in the least impressed by my kindness. From the palm of my hand, he looked me straight in the eye and sank his minute mousey incisors into my little finger.
“Oh gosh,” exclaimed Charlotte, “You’ll have to see the doctor. That mouse might have given you rabies.”
“I can’t go and see a doctor for a mouse bite,” I protested, “I’ve got my pride. I’ll be the laughingstock of the parish if it gets around that I went to the doctor to get treated for a mouse bite.”
“Suit yourself,” said Charlotte, “But if you start frothing at the mouth, don’t blame me.”
Chip contemptuously turned his back on me. I hope Casey will prove a tad more understanding. GPH✠
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