ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Monday, January 29, 1996 TAG: 9601290088
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: A-5 EDITION: METRO
COLUMN: Monty S. Leitch
SOURCE: MONTY S. LEITCH
FOR A while, earlier this fall, I was keeping count of the mice I caught under the sink in the kitchen. I won't tell you the exact number (in case you're squeamish), but it was substantial.
Then, for several days running, the traps were empty. I've won, I cheered. I've won!
Ha, ha, ha.
One night last week, while the cat and I were watching television, I heard the pitter-patter of little feet in the kitchen and there - right on the stove! - stood a mouse.
A big, fat, well-fed mouse, moving around with the assurance of one who knows his surroundings well.
I said some words that I won't repeat here, and the mouse calmly escaped into the kitchen's netherworld by scooting down through the stove's eye.
Immediately, I got out the traps again. I set one on the stove and two under the sink. Then I returned to my TV show, to wait.
Not five minutes later, the trap under the sink sprang. Aha! I told the cat. Victory again.
(Those of you who're wondering, by the way, why my cat plays such a tiny role in the capture of mice must remember that my cat is sickly. Asthmatic. Wheezy. Terribly, terribly delicate - probably allergic to mice, in fact - and not expected to participate in activities that would worsen his condition.)
Anyway, this mouse under the sink was - wasn't - well - well, it wasn't exactly a clean kill, and there was some noise and banging around and, by the time I got there to put an end to things, both mouse and trap had disappeared into that dark, narrow space between the floor of the kitchen cabinet and the floor of the kitchen.
Now, this dark, narrow space is accessible only by a small hole cut in the cabinet's floor, up through which the pipes extend. It's really not even as big as my hand.
So, armed with a flashlight and the fireplace tongs, I set out to explore this forbidding space - to retrieve that mouse, if possible, and give him a decent burial.
I was, however, unsuccessful. So late in the day, my patience level is naturally low anyway; and, besides, there was a really good show on TV.
So I abandoned the effort, left a note for the Man of the House (``Dead mouse in trap under sink. Remove please.''), and went to bed.
He's a wonderful man. The next morning, there on the kitchen counter, was the trap he'd so gallantly retrieved. Only, it wasn't the trap that I'd lost. And there was no mouse in it.
Now, what to do? It's obvious the mice are back in the kitchen in full force. And last night I heard them scratching around in the bedroom walls again.
I will, of course, reset the traps. I may even resume my count. But there are many more mice in this world than there are women with traps; there are even more mice than cats.
But let them live in the barn, I say. Let them populate the woodshed, the outhouse, the root cellar, the shed. Let them broadcast their little squeaks and scratches in other parts of the world! There are acres and acres of land around here. Why must they live in my kitchen?
They mustn't. That's what I say. That's what I mutter, over and over, while I'm setting my traps.
Monty S. Leitch is a Roanoke Times columnist.
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