Of Mice and Women

There comes a point in a mouse's life when he must choose.  Life?  Or my good chocolate?
Apparently, for more than a few, this is a conundrum.
I understand the difficulty in this decision.  The dark call of chocolate is often stronger than reason.  But as I am bigger, and as I pay for this house - albeit old and full of cracks - and as it is, after all, MY good chocolate, I'm trying to be helpful with their decision making.
The traps are clearly marked.  There are trails of droppings leading right to them - and then stopping.  The smell of death (by chocolate) hangs in the air around the petite contraptions.  They've been used and reused.  They are the old fashioned, classic, cheap and obvious little mechanisms of a quick ending that have been used for generations of mice.  So either they just don't learn, or they just consider a demise with their faces smushed into their favorite delicacies worth it.  I'd believe it, either way.

It's not that I have anything in particular against mice.  They're rather cute, really.  And yes, we've seen Ratatoulle, and I commiserated right along with the rest of the couch audience for the Parisian sewer rat with the refined restaurant taste.  Thanks for personifying rodents, Disney.  A year ago, there must have been a local litter that was braver than most, for several of the little tykes ventured out into the kitchen in broad daylight.  My kids' pounding feet didn't deter them from peering out from under the stove.  They had big eyes and ears and clearly guilty looks, like any pet that's been caught with their paws in the cookie jar.  But it was untimely for the little fellas.  I had just discovered something had indeed gotten its little mitts in my little bag of chocolate Easter eggs.
I connected the dots.  Lots of little brown ones, in fact.
It added up to little sympathy.  
Within a week, my brave husband had surpassed his previous hunting records.  He even caught two in one trap!  I cleaned out the cupboard, and for a while felt a modicum of control over my little kitchen kingdom.

Caught red-handed.

But that was last year.
Recently, I got cranky when I had to throw out a cereal box.
I sighed when I had to dispose of the cocoa powder.
But then my husband had to chuck several coffee k-cups for the Keurig machine.
That was the last straw.

The mice in my house are going down.  Again.
Why can't our unwelcome dinner guests have cheaper taste?  Keurig coffee?  Really?  Can't they just stick with the old Folger's can in the back of the cupboard?  And why not the Hershey's cocoa powder; must they really choose the new can of Ghiardelli that makes brownies to satisfy a pregnant sweet tooth?  How do they even know?  Are they doing it just to spite me?  They seem to know.  We usually keep natural types of peanut butter in stock.  Peanut butter is generally a wonderful, sticky, aromatic bait to use.  But they don't like it.  Not in this house.  We had to go out and buy them their own jar of classic Skippy.  The rodents now have their own special food sitting in my cupboard!
I hope they feel special.
And I wish they didn't have such refined tastes.
They eat more of my chocolate than my kids do!
That's all going to change.  And no, it's not happening by me sharing more of my private Lindt stash with my children.  Conversely, I plan to share less.  With everyone.  Four footed beasts in particular.  My brave husband will defend me.  (It works great, by the way.  I discover traces of the little thieves and he does the dirty work.  I love marriage.  It keeps my chocolate and coffee sacred.)


So live long and prosper, mice.  Somewhere else.  And learn to eat Hershey's, while you're there.