I killed a mouse last night.
(warning: don’t read further if you are a mouse sympathizer)
We’ve had a few mouse sightings over the last couple of weeks. A scurry in the basement, a black blur running under the couch, a dropping on the kiddo’s Thomas the Tank Engine set. We set out a couple of glue traps and got nothing but droppings and fur stuck to one. We bought a sonic noise plug-in thing that is supposed to drive them away but all it seemed to do was make them scurry faster.
So I went to the store and bought the big glue traps and set them under the couch and in a few other prime locations and last night we found one stuck on one under the couch frantically trying to squirm off. I got a plastic grocery bag, wrapped it up and took it outside and killed it (I’ll spare you the gory details).
The thing that was interesting to me is that I was pretty stone cold about the whole thing. No shrieking, no flinching, just bag-kill-dispose of. It made me think about the first mouse we had back at the country house. The night we saw it I could barely sleep, so freaked out was I by the thought that it might climb on me in my sleep. When we finally caught it on a glue trap Mr. Monkey and had this whole elaborate thing involving brooms, oven mitts, rubber boots and squealing just to get the trap into the plastic bag. It took far longer than it should have and we were both sort of horrified by the whole thing.
Now: bag-kill-trash can. No remorse.
I think I’m becoming a mouse sociopath.