Humane only goes so far

The mice avoided the humane traps until I went away for a week. I will leave it to the reader to guess how I found this out.

Having a heart in the hardware store

H'ray! Last night I finally got some catch-and-release traps, at the soon-to-be-late (and very lamented) Candey's Hardware, the sort of place where I can never find anything without help but where the staff know the stock down to the last washer. The guy behind the counter peered at my pile of shrinkwrapped grey boxes. "Have-a-heart traps! So ya got a heart, huh?" "I don't know about that, but I'm pretty sure I don't have the guts to keep using the glue traps." "Heh heh. Well, we've been selling mousetraps like crazy this year. Seems like a year-long thing with 'em." Hah, so it's not just me and/or slovenly housekeeping. "Most folks don't mind the glue traps, though. Just step on the mouse and you're done, right?" "Y...eah. That's...pretty much what I can't do."

The traps are ingeniously designed to snap closed as soon as any weight disrupts their balance, so after playing with them for a while I primed them and set them up near the oven, just where I originally saw my non-rent-paying roomie. So far the mice have resisted the lure of the peanut butter I smeared inside--maybe they wanted creamy rather than chunky?--but I'm feeling more relaxed. Days of no sightings plus the promise that I won't find a sad little furry Dying Gaul squeaking out his last ("Spaaarrrr...taaaaa") on a glue sheet will do that. Isn't perspective grand?

This morning has involved a farmers market run and a frantic phone call from Teal, who was already, at the unbelievably early hour of 11:00 AM, up and about in preparation for the fashion show she's in tonight--a show, I might add, that is being executed despite a degree of planning chaos I previously associated exclusively with the Slavic community. The gist of the call, once I managed to figure out what she was saying, in an unusually flustered tone, was that she wanted to put nonslip soles on the silver shoes she had borrowed. Looks like I'll get to see both my friend and part of my wardrobe parading in front of the flower of the ambassadorial world tonight--what fun! Several of us got invitations on the strict condition that we comport ourselves like reasonable opera-going beings, golf-clapping politely rather than yelling, "I CAN SEE YER KNEES COZ YER IN A SKIRT!" and wolf-whistling. I wonder whether anyone told the ambassadors that they can't do that either.

Murine update

From the World Museum Liverpool.

So far, no further sightings or encounters in the traps. Tonight I'm going to pick up some humane live-catch traps at a hardware store. The plan is to take any captured enemy combatants down to the park, where they can be released to live free and/or become snacks for the coyotes and not try to get into my stuff. I thought I had the steely nerve and callous nature required for using the glue traps, but it turns out that I don't. So much for my carnivorous nature.

The experience of having to, as it were, shoot my own mouse sheds new light on one of my previous job's responsibilities: explaining to incensed researchers that our house style required saying that they had "killed" or "humanely killed," rather than "sacrificed," their mice. Privately, the staff agreed that we would change the policy if we ever received evidence that an experiment had called for building a mouse-scaled pyramid, complete with sacrificial platform or chac mool, and dressing one or more of the mice in the appropriate outfits. The necessary recordings of high-pitched chanting could be provided as online appendixes to the main article. It is possible that we derived too much entertainment from creating these scenarios, but considering that the alternative was awarding Geek of the Week points to one another ("Where does the word 'tatters' come from, anyway?" "I don't know offhand, but I imagine that it shares the root with 'tatting,' to make lace, since that's a fine mesh with large holes in it." "Aaaand you're the geek of the week." "This from someone who referenced the Bradshaw shift's effect on spelling at yesterday's farewell party?" "Fine, fine, dork of the day, then"), we made our peace with it.

As a post-script to our earlier conversation, dear мышки, I should add that I have locked up the Tim Tams, so don't even think you're getting any of that fine Arnott's cane-sugar chocolate wafer in chocolate coating goodness. Should I detect you making any attempts, however, the gloves come off and I put out cajeta. You'll get severely stuck in it and you'll develop diabetes. For serious, now: Don't mess with the 'Tams.