Early last week, I smugly remarked to my wife, “You know, we’ve only had three mice in our house in 25 years. According to my calculations, we’re averaging over eight years per mouse.”

The recent warm evenings, an open door and the large crack at the bottom of the screen door and door frame were about to upset the current occurrences of our critter-encounters.

The very next evening… I’m saying THE VERY NEXT EVENING, I looked in amazement as a mouse went whizzing by the TV, along the living room wall, and shot under the closet door and into the wine storage area.

When I saw the rodent rascal, I was going to leap from the couch like a Ninja to intercept the speeding rodent! Thankfully at the precise moment, I remembered my Ninja leaping days are far behind me. At my age, a Ninja leap from the couch to quickly dispatch a mongrel mouse might bring a visit from the EMT guys.

I hollered for the assistance of my faithful companion and “critter co-wrangler” – “Chris where are the mouse traps?”

My wife went out to the garage and soon came back with two mouse traps she had stored away about eight years ago. I thank the Lord for her as I can’t remember where I put something eight minutes ago.

I had two traps at my disposal… one very modern self-cocking all contained plastic one and an old style, simple spring-wire on a small wood plank.

After choosing my preferred bait “du jour,” peanut butter, I put a small dab of the irresistible concoction on the trigger of both traps.

I quickly learned the only thing in danger of being caught by the new ultra-modern trap was my finger. It quickly took a one-way trip to the trash can. Luckily, the only thing injured by the newfangled trap’s hair-trigger trap was my pride.

Left with the single trap, I confidently told Chris, “One trap is all I need.”

Calling on my many years of outdoor experiences and my ability to read “sign,” and how to determine critter trails of travel, I put the trap at the intersection of the floor molding and the corner of the wine closet. Perfect!

I lay awake in bed for a couple hours waiting to hear the satisfying sound of “SNAP” signifying a quick end to the rodent’s reign of terror. No snap… so I finally dozed off.

The next morning, I walked into the living room fully assured there would be a mouse carcass in the trap.

What? No mouse!

Later in the day, I hit the couch for an afternoon nap. Just as I was about to doze off, the mouse came streaking out of the wine closet and tucked in behind the TV cabinet.

Getting up from the couch, I walked to the corner and picked up my heavy walking stick. It is oak, about four feet long and an excellent choice for battling even the largest mouse.

I dared the mouse to come out and go one-on-one with me and my hillbilly shillelagh. I’d even give the rodent his choice of an appropriately sized toothpick.

My intent was to use the oak staff as a makeshift pool cue and pin the mouse against the floor trim. However, the plan also had a very distinct drawback. It would require me to get down on the floor to assume the pool-shooting position. My getting down would probably require a visit by the EMTs to get me back up again.

Intently watching the mouse, I didn’t notice my wife now entering the fray armed with her trusty fly swatter. The mouse made a dash for the kitchen and barely escaped a first-rate swatting from my wife. The mouse now decided to hide under our two raised front kitchen cabinets.

From her elevated view, Chris couldn’t see the mouse, but from my lower perspective from the couch. I could plainly see the varmint. I immediately became the spotter, not so unlike the artillery spotters of World War II.

There was an open area at both ends of the cabinets and in the middle. I’d call out the rodent’s position and Chris would respond with a fly swatter assault.

After 15 minutes of vigorous exercise and no success playing whack-a-mole with the mouse, my wife decided to break our association with the Geneva Convention and bring gas warfare into play.  She armed herself with a can of fly spray.

Now, when I called out the mouse’s location, she would give it a shot every time it was in one of the open spaces. The spray was having its effect. The fly spray on the ceramic tile floor was slowing the mouse down … its little feet couldn’t get any traction. I thought I could almost hear its tiny feet and toenails going clickity, clickity, click. Chris’s gas attack also resulted in the mouse being drenched by the spray and consequently, making bad decisions.

Suddenly, the rodent ran into the stairway and into an open corner. For the mouse… it was one, two, three strikes you’re out… and a well-aimed swat from Chris knocked the varmint semi-senseless.

Chris then flipped the stunned mouse out of the corner, and in a smooth move even baseball’s great Joe DiMaggio would envy, she shoved the screen door open and snatched up the mouse on the end of the flyswatter like a ground ball and sent it spiraling away towards the driveway.

Victory was ours among the stench of fly spray!

Later, as we started through the garage to go to town for bird seed and suet, Chris calmly said, “Jack, there’s another snake in the garage.”

Shaking my head in disbelief, I went to retrieve my heavy gloves.

‘till next time,  

Jack

Readers can contact the author by writing to this publication or e-mail Jack at jackspaulding1971@outlook.com 

Spaulding’s books, “The Best Of Spaulding Outdoors” and “The Coon Hunter And The Kid,” are available from Amazon.com as a paperback or Kindle download.