I was set to call this post something like, “Mice: Round 3”. I was only going to write about MICE and the whole saga that’s developed up here in Yurtlandia. It roughly went like this:
- We arrived. Mice were everywhere.
2. We set up poison traps. Mice died everywhere.
4. Mice came back. And proliferated.
5. We were scared to poison the mice again because it would affect the food supply chain for the other animals.
7. Mice really proliferated.
We actually moved the kids out of the loft because it was Out.Of.Control.
I’m talking, mice getting into all of our clothes, mouse poop all over the place, puddles of mouse pee in our dishes! Ugh. I thought of the cute little mice that I’d seen and taken pictures of, videos of too! – and was glad for the sake of bloody mercy that I wasn’t seeing them again, little shits.
I have no compunctions about grabbing them by the tail and feeding them to the ducks. Alive. The ducks pick them up, by the way, and thwack their necks with quick flick of their bills, scoop them up and in, and there they go. Mice-meal.
We’ve been waiting for a cat and we are planning on getting at least two of our friend’s kittens when they are weaned (and we are back from Vietnam). But the other day, I saw an ad on our local community forum for a cat… it said “she’s a mouser!” and I was sold. We went to pick her up.
So, here is where my post got diverged from calling it “Mice: Round 3” or something (snappy) like that. What happened was this: I was walking downstairs, carrying our new little cat (who is indeed a mouser! She killed mice all night, in her first night here! WOOOT!), and I was paying attention to her, not to where I was stepping. I mis-stepped, landed on the foot which has only recently fully healed from being broken in January…and sprained it. At least I hope it’s a sprain and not a fracture. Positive thinking, y’all.
I’m lying in bed now and typing this and Mikey’s dipping those instant bags of Indian food in boiling water. Dinner. My foot is duly elevated with ice packs on it and I just keep thinking of those effing mice. Maybe technically speaking, my sprain is my fault because I wasn’t watching where I was going, but I blame THEM, little defecating suckers of holey sadism.
Meriah Nichols is a counselor. Solo mom to 3 (one with Down syndrome, one on the spectrum). Deaf, and neurodiverse herself, she’s a gardening nerd who loves cats, Star Trek, and takes her coffee hot and black.