We have a mouse.
Actually, to be honest, we have had at least 4 mice. 2 were caught in non-kill traps and released into the forest to either live happy little mousey lives, or become part of the food chain. (We are realists, after all).
1 mouse lives outside. He’s a little field mouse who loves stealing tomatoes and racing through our garden – we don’t mind him at all. He’s got huge big ears and is just cute.
And then, there’s Fuckyou Mouse.
Fuckyou Mouse is your regular, standard grey house mouse. He currently lives somewhere in my house, and makes regular little appearances in the middle of the kitchen floor, possibly flipping the bird with his little mousey paws. He likes to scurry around, making sure that we hear him and see him … and mouse war has been declared.
Fuckyou Mouse like raisin bread, but has craftily learned to bypass the trigger mechanism on the traps. I imagine that he sits in his little mousey hole, laughing at us maniacally as he nibbles on his stolen treats. He has so far also stolen chocolate from the traps, but turns his nose up at bacon, peanut butter and birdseed.
We’ve switched traps to a kind that is allegedly inescapable, however, Fuckyou Mouse has learned the art of craftily leaning in the opening and stealing the bait from there. Move the bait from the centre, and he’ll steal it through the side.
So for now, we live in a state of total war with the grey terrorist. As I type, Fuckyou Mouse is now sitting in the hallway, gloating at me and nibbling a stolen peanut from the allegedly escape proof trap.
Updates will follow if we either catch the furry little fucker or die trying.
Fuck you, Mouse.