I’ve come a long way since my first murder. About once a year, usually around February, we find evidence of a mouse in our kitchen, trap it and kill it, and don’t see another until the next year.
I’m more comfortable with the traps, and even will dispose of the carcasses myself. Killing one mouse a year hasn’t weighed too heavily on me.
We had two or three inside the house this year, actually, but they were spaced out enough that it wasn’t too traumatic for me.
A few weeks ago, I reached for a bag of dog treats I had in my car. Little shreds of the foil bag rained on my lap like confetti, and for a moment, I thought Isis might have chewed through the bag herself. Then I found the turds.
I don’t know why it took me a few weeks to set traps inside the car. I stupidly thought the mouse would just leave on its own, despite the fact that I knew I had a ton of spilled kibble under the seats. (Since I started feeding raw, I use the kibble as training treats.)
After the discovery of more turds, I smartened up and set a trap on the passenger seat. The next morning, I was startled to see a dead mouse riding shotgun.
I set another trap under the back seat and a few days later, got another one. I’m surprised it took that long.
Yesterday, I Shop-Vac’d the hell out of my car, getting rid of all remnants of dog treats and kibble-colored turds. I looked around for any sign of their lair, or live mice, and found none.
Set a trap anyway, and goddammit if I didn’t find another little carcass this morning.
I don’t eat mammals. I feel very bad about killing all these little mice, meaning no harm. They haven’t done anything to me except creep me out. It’s my own fault for creating such a wonderful buffet.
But I need to keep them out! And kill the ones who refuse to leave.
Update (April 12): No new mice have been killed since I cleaned the car and have been covering the vents with scented dryer sheets at night. Apparently, mice don’t like the smell.
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