It started innocently enough, all good intentions. I am, after all, a nice person. Some might say, too nice.
I was imagining things. Paranoid. Maybe losing my tiny mind. But then little things started to make sense. The furtive glances. The feeling of being watched. When it came, the confirmation was a sharp and terrible blade, twisted in my gut.
We had bloody mice.
I thought for a long time about how to deal with the problem. I'm allergic to cats. I had to act but I was nervous about the consequences. I tried lacing a humane trap with peanut butter but got nothing except a sticky mess. Then I used the spring-loaded killing machines that had me terrified of snapping my fingers in half. Nothing.
Lights continued to flicker. Walls continued to rustle.
Poison and tangle-foot pads were deployed.
It's interesting how setting out to kill something feels. Reluctance at first, followed by firm determination. As someone who is basically a wimp, I felt huge sympathy for the wee bastards. But they'd chosen the wrong place to make their lair. (Oh--how many of you read all THE RATS books all those years ago? *shudder*.) I digress.
It's hard to kill but you get used to it. To the idea. To the act. I'm assuming this is how we learned to survive over the centuries.Or more likely it is an instinct we suppressed in so-called civilized society (some of us, not all). There was no joy in killing these mice although there was a fierce sense of triumph when we had success.
I am a serial killer of mice and feel like I'm getting rather good at it (although I'll never be complacent again).I'm not sure if we've 'removed' every last mouse from the house but I've recently been rewarded with a most unpleasant odor that I can only assume is mouse decay. I feel like the journey is complete. I am a killer and I hide the bodies in the walls.
Anyone for tea?