There's not room enough for the both of us...

I am under no delusions that real-life mice are like the little mice in Cinderella and all other Disney films - cute, friendly and more than likely to break out into song at every turn. I know that if I run into a crab it's not going to be the calypso singing crustacean from the Little Mermaid. I will not invite them into my house for a visit and I will not tell them to pull up a chair to share a meal with me.

I'm a lover of all creatures, despite recent reportings of a Thumper killing. That bunny had a death wish and a crazed look in his eyes; I was doing society a favour.

I love my boxer boy, I continue to love my soccer ball cat though she has left this world, I even love the robin who visits me every morning in the garden 'though I would never consider a parakeet, cockatoo or even a budgie within the confines of my home. What I do not love is the scurry of little feet across the ground, and that is why I want to crunch their little tiny brains under my feet, take a stiletto to the cranium and poison the feck out of the little varmints.

About three years ago, well before I started this blog, I learned that I can shriek like a girl when I come into contact with a mouse, especially if it runs across the counter right in front of me. And rats... forget about it. Bubonic plague, anyone?

I live in a townhouse complex. I like my neighbours, for the most part, and because we all share a common roofline it's often in the best interest to eradicate the critters. I haven't seen any in the past two years ('cause I poisoned the crap out of the last bunch), so imagine my surprise when one ran across my patio (thankfully still outside) a week ago. Two, three, four sightings followed on a daily basis. I'm not sure if it's the same mouse or its brothers or sisters but my first instinct (to scream) came to my lips immediately. And then I wanted to kill them. To poison them. To trap them and feed them to snakes, watching their round little bodies and tiny brains devoured, digested. Gone. Oh, and I dislike snakes even more.

So, to arm myself, I called in for reinforcements. Artillery. Nuclear weapons. While they are still outside, I know when the temperature drops and snow starts to fly, they will seek heat and that heat will be in my house. The pest control came the other day to place sticky traps underneath my hollow concrete stoop. I hadn't seen any activity for a few days, so I thought it was one and that we'd got him. Not the case.

I don't know how many there are, but tonight as I was sitting out enjoying the last few rays of sunlight, I heard it. The squeak. The call of Stuart Little (whose cuter than these backyard visitors 'cause he speaks English and wears a bow tie). And then I saw his friend sent in to haul his platoon mate off of the battlefield and away to safety. And then I heard a louder squeak as both (if not more) got their tiny feet and tails stuck down on the lacquered surface of the trap.

Kao's ears were doing double duty with him cocking his head to the left and right as he heard the screams of death and the scratching and munching as the mice tried to gnaw their legs off and execute their escape. I'm just thankful he has yet to notice the mice running into the hollowed out shell of the stoop or try to get into the mouse cemetary underneath the stoop.

I think I'm also becoming accustomed to sharing the backyard space for them as I now make sure Kao is far away from them instead of screaming like a banshee first. Don't get me wrong... if one runs across my foot I will not guarantee that I will not freak out. What will do it is if the mice start sewing buttons and doing my laundry as they deliver a very cute rendition of "It's a Small World." Now that would be freaky.