Sympathy for the Mousers

The second day into what should have been a one-day event, I have excavated and mouse-proofed every square inch of our pantry (at least it better be mouse proof).  I’m not one to go off the deep end (at least not when it comes to cleaning), but nothing irks me more than discovering evidence that the furry little freeloaders have managed to elude the cats and pilfer my pantry.

So as I excavated, I implemented every non-electric mouse trap and deterrent I could think of, and I began to feel a little like the Coyote planning and baiting his traps.  At first I giggled and pushed aside any worry that I am that nutty or obsessive in my pursuit of this prey, but as Thing 1 threatened to get a court order to stop my pantry-cleaning dance and the Big Guy volunteered to ferry Thing 2 to his play date, I started to wonder, are all these canisters and traps and deterrents a sign that I’m getting a little too close to the edge?

Or are they just a recognition that once in a while we should tip our hats to the rusticators of rodentia, the bad ol’ putty-tats, and admit that mousing is harder than it looks?

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