There’s a crawl space under my first-floor condo. It accommodates the slope of the hill on which our four-unit building sits. And somehow—in the way of all small critters who can flatten their bodies to the width of a tortilla—mice regularly move in. But, of course, that dark cold space does not meet their housing requirements. Over the years, they’ve situated themselves next to an electric outlet through which they can smell food and feel the luxurious warmth of my quarters. If only the story ended there.
Instead, those enterprising mice began nibbling through the wallboard. Successfully, as it turned out. That was several years ago. At which point, I began filling the outlets with plug-ins and childproof covers and affixing duct tape patches to the nibbled spot.
That remedy mostly worked until this summer. When nothing seemed to deter the resident mice. Especially because Tiger Tiger and Tuxedo–upon hearing the scritches and scratches behind the wall–took to helping their rodent friends. As the photo illustrates, the cats tore down even my fortified covering of duct tape and wood. (Just for the record, the cats can also open all my lower kitchen drawers and cupboards!)
So this summer, I’ve dealt with five mouse-invaders. The death score: Traps 2; Cats: 3. One cat murder occurred without my seeing anything other than the carcass. But on two occasions, I’ve gotten to watch the cats—in all their glory—taunt, tease, chase, harass, and bedevil these oh-so-cute and speedy little visitors. The scenes played out down my hallway and into the bathroom. The final one occurred last night, with me watching from my perch in bed.
Based on the cats’ behavior, that particular mouse had eluded discovery for several days under the chest-of-drawers in my closet. But once Tiger Tiger and Tuxedo had flushed it out, the die seemed to be cast. True—the little guy made two or three runs for freedom, but Tuxedo was faster. And in a scene I very much wish I could have captured, grabbed the mouse in his mouth and with so much pride and determination trotted back into the bathroom with his quarry. Like a brand-new father. Like a boxer dancing with his hand in the air. (FYI: Tiger Tiger appeared to be playing backup.)
Finally, Tuxedo brought the almost-dead mouse into the bedroom. And before he could deliver it to me on the bed, I snagged my grabber/reacher wand (standard issue in an old person’s home), snapped up the mouse, held it aloft until I could get to the porch (in my nightgown), and drop it over the railing. Tuxedo loping hopefully underneath.
At which point, I had two very very sad and mad cats on my hands.
And yes, I did call in a professional—who has now filled the nibbled opening with spray foam and wire mesh here upstairs and also braved the crawl space and installed several more layers of fine wire mesh.
The cats continue to root for the mice. Part of me does too. In fact, I drifted off to sleep last evening feeling sad for the disappointed cats and a bit guilty about murdering God’s perfectly innocent, fetching creatures. ©
