Just so we’re clear about that. The Maternal Unit will not allow my husband to come by and help, because it was certainly bad enough that the other Golden Boy, my brother, finally witnessed how overcome her house has become by vermin. So my husband isn’t allowed to see it. But after having rats in his garage in Hollywood, and patrolling our garage and attic for rats and field mice, he knows all the tricks, and he’s willing to give me tips.
He continues to push this idea of having an exterminator over to actually seal off the entry points!
What an absurd idea; then the exterminator would have to enter the house, and they would discern that my mother has mice. Then they might judge her. They would know her secret!
It’s much, much better if Rose’s daughter just stops by after work, empties the traps, and sets new ones.
I was assured this evening that she had checked the traps, and they were all empty. And that she would set some new ones herself . . . . tomorrow, or maybe the next day.
So of course I then “remembered” an errand that I had to do in her neighborhood, and dropped in on her with a fresh package of wooden spring traps, a few glue tray traps, a clean laundry basket, some dishwashing liquid, and a magazine full of ideas about kitchen remodeling. (That was invaluable; when I got too much advice, I could simply ask her if she was finding any good ideas about how to remodel the kitchen. Or to please open me a beer.)
There were four dead mice on-site when I got there; so much for her assiduous patrolling of the existing traps with the flashlight I took out of my purse and simply gave her last weekend. I set another ten tonight (eight wooden spring-type, and two glue trays), and redeployed one electronic one and the tiny baitless spring-type that had seen some action.
The electronic ones no longer indicate with a little light whether or not they are occupied by tiny electrocuted mousies; you have to open ’em and check.
No more doing this my mom’s way, and trusting to the little plastic yellow lever shaped like cheese that come on the wooden ones these days: each one I set out (other than the glue trays) had peanut butter on that piece of plastic.
And since I had given her one of my flashlights, we were able to actually see behind the stove, the dryer, etc. But I should have waited to take out the trash, because of the one I’d forgotten to check—and the fact that one bought the farm behind the stove while I was baiting traps for its little friends. (Something heartening about that: “oh, you’re all so eager! But wait your turn; there’s a trap for everyone. And to make sure you’re still in this existential mood, we’ll be tossing black lipstick, red wine, bitty cigarettes and tiny volumes of existentialist literature into the most infested areas.)
Yeah, and I took out the trash while I was there. And brought the milk in from Rose’s car. And grabbed a jacket of mine (and a bathrobe) that I would prefer were not nibbled on. (The bathrobe is my warmest, and relatively new. I haven’t examined it, since it is not coming into this house until I’m ready to throw it into the washing machine. The jacket is one I had with me this past weekend, and seems to have escaped both the dog and the mice unscathed.)
There are no politics for me right now: just editing stories during the day, and spending my evenings either dealing with my mother’s clutter, or relentlessly cleaning and clearing out the condo, so I do not end up . . . any more like her than . . . I already am.
It is lovely to be in a mouse-free house, eating sausages and drinking orange juice spiked with plenty of Stoli.
Here’s a fun household fact: if you’re always misplacing your measuring cup—or it has a bad habit of hiding in the dishwasher—you can use that makeshift measuring cup you created for your morning Cream of Wheat to pour out the vodka that goes in your evening orange juice. It was way too large a measure—three tablespoons or so!—this past summer, but now it appears to be right around two ounces. Just right. I should just get out a Sharpie and start marking, on the outside of my plastic tumbler, my vodka pour as it progresses, like parents do in their kids’ bedrooms with height charts on the walls: watch the marks go from one ounce, to an ounce and a half, and on to two ounces, where they are now! Within a few weeks, I may dispense with the orange juice altogether—and just get down to business. I drink my OJ from a huge plastic tumbler; how long until it’s full of unsullied Stoli?
Feel free to make book on that, if you like.
UPDATE: As I get some of the raunchier areas of the house cleared out, I still need to create desirable place for the mice to wander into—to their deaths. My husband used to employ large cardboard boxes, with rat-size holes cut into the sides, to make little killing tunnels. I’m thinking of doing the same in some of the unused rooms where the dog doesn’t go. But, of course, on a smaller scale.
Please send me your old shoe boxes. Thanks!
UPDATE II: Thanks for the suggestions. The kitten idea is sound, if we were able to convince Mandy that the little creature was being nurtured as her partner in mousing, and the kitty was able to occupy one of the back rooms/survive to adulthood. So it isn’t altogether out of the question. But we’d have to get it as a kitten, in order to acclimate me to its particular allergens; some allergic people get along just fine with their own household pets.
Like it matters anyway: I’m very allergic to dust, and I think I may be slightly allergic to mouse piss and mouse shit. How would I know for certain, though? All I know is that I’m popping antihistamines like a crazy woman.
The bait idea would be perfect for a cold, dry season (or a hot, dry season). But during the rainy season, with all the moisture in the air, we need to retrieve those bitty corpses and get them into a landfill somewhere, where the nets keep pigeons and other birds from swooping in and eating that leftover half-hamburger.
I don’t mind dead mice in the walls, attic, and crawlspaces if I know they will skeletonize quickly; I don’t want ’em there if they’re going to draw flies. I’m all about wildlife reduction in and around my mom’s house.
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Someone got here before me I see…
No not a kitten. Kittens don’t know about hunting until they get older. You need a large, half-feral male cat who’s well-versed in the ways of the alley and of dogs. I’d say female because they’re usually better hunters, but male cats are usually better at handling dogs.
Unless you cordon of parts of the house to let the female cat do her hunting unmolested by the dog. Give her plenty of water and just a half cup of kibble every day and she’ll be hungry enough to go after the mice.
I have a silky gray feral girl in my backyard who would solve your Mom’s problem inside of two weeks.
if you run out of peanut butter, froot loops and dog food are also big hits with mice.
My suggestion is to go out with a flashlight and look for entry holes. Likely on the ground, although they could be up high, and as small as a quarter will let them in. If a mouse can get it’s head through a hole, the rest of the body can follow. Block up the holes and keep them out. Eventually you’ll get them. From the sheer numbers, sounds like you have a colony of breeders going. That might take a while to get
I’m trying not to be overwhelmed, though I know they are nesting in the house. OTOH, the fact that points near potential entries are still good places to catch “incoming” means they are still getting in–so there’s still hope.
I’ve figured out two entry points for sure, including the fireplace. But I want to check on a few other areas to find out if they are corridors, entry points, or simply dining halls—such as the pantry she just gave up on, and the area where she used to store the dog food (yes: they do like that. I don’t want them to figure out the peanut butter thing, so I might even resort to a little tuna fish, even though we all know how much I despise the smell; at least it’s better than mouse piss).
The problem with the “outside” thing is that I feel pretty sure that the attic and the crawlspace under the house are involved, so I thought I’d try to examine the inside walls, and go at it with some spackle.
I don’t even think it’s a quarter-size: these ones are so much tinier than field mice. I’ll bet they could squeeze through a dime-size space. I’m very suspicious of the laundry hookup, and the door that contains the dog door in it.
A the H has seriously suggested that I consider calling one of those forensic cleaning squads for some of the more awful areas. He’s forgetting, of course, about the time she moved out of a condo and allowed the power to be turned off, with a freezer full of meat.
Mouse piss is awful, but better than large quantities—and huge varieties—of maggots.
Uh-oh. I responded as the wrong me. It’s getting tougher and tougher these days to be an International Woman of Mystery . . .
There is no reason to measure vodka just fill a tumbler and add orange juice to taste. I stopped drinking Vodka, I wanted people to smell the booze on me and not think I was plain crazy. You can save money on Vodka too, just buy a bottle of Stoli and keep refilling it with Royal Occasion. Try putting it in the freezer with a little pepper in it, it pours like syrup.