Mortein is a Girl's Best Friend

That can is never out of reach.

Unlike a kinder, gentler blogger I know, I have no qualms about blasting Charlotte or any of her progeny into oblivion; there are just too many of them to elicit any sympathy from me. This week the cockroaches made their scheduled mid-Wet appearance, a few flying ants have made their way back inside, and to add to the plague-like manifestations, we had a mouse.

We arrived home from our overnight at the resort to find one of the Roma tomatoes left on the windowsill neatly hollowed out. That night the intruder was spotted dashing across the floor of the living area toward the kitchen. Bushcraft books were consulted for information on homemade mousetraps, including one with a greased beer bottle cantilevered over a bucket of water. My more compassionate housemates would have none of it. He'll drown! they whined. They were not appeased by my assertion I would wake when I heard the splash, rescue him, and release him outdoors. And it had to be a "him," because considering the possibility it was a "her," and a potentially pregnant "her" at that, would have sent me hightailing it back to the resort. (Not a bad plan, actually.)

Without anywhere to hide other than behind the dishwasher, he was easy to spot as he darted along the wall under our suspended lower cabinets like a duck in a shooting gallery. I set a bucket on its side with a peanutbutter-covered cracker as bait and stationed Jorge nearby with a broom to sweep him into the bucket when he approached. Jorge waited for about five minutes before abandoning his post, mumbling something about him being an idiot to consider such a plan. Desperate times called for desperate measures. Out came the Mortein. A shot behind the dishwasher sent him out of there in a hurry. Without Jorge on duty, he tried to make it to the bedroom, unsuccessfully, as I had the forethought to block the gap below the door with a towel. Back to the safety of the dishwasher where I gassed him unmercifully. For two days we waited for a tell-tale odor or the appearance of blowflies and considered how in the world we would extract the rodent's remains from deep inside the machine.

Nothing.

As I'd feared, the insecticide had probably only given him a tremendous buzz and, I suspected, changed him into a mutant killer mouse waiting for me to fall asleep to eat my face.

Elle's scream and a door slam announced his appearance in the pantry last night. The new plan was to keep the pantry sealed off until Jorge could bring home a trap. A humane trap! they whined. Jorge had already left work and could not be reached in time to communicate the need for the equipment. Fortunately he had picked up a six-pack on his way home, and when he opened the pantry door to throw out the bottles' shrinkwrap, there was the mouse distractedly munching garbage. Jorge easily reached down, picked the mouse off the top of the pile with the plastic wrap, and tossed him out the door.

He'll be back.

And I'll be waiting.


Behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.

-- The Holy Bible (Revelation 6:8)