I haven’t seen or heard Mr. Mouse since his stunning début, but though he is out of sight, he isn’t out of mind. Despite being pre-caffeinated this morning, I immediately noticed that the loaf of bread I had unwisely left on the kitchen counter last night had been broken into and feasted on by none other than Mr. Mouse – unless it was one of his partners in crime, given the Never Just One rule. He must not have heard about the Atkins Diet.
I think I’m going to have to break down and get a trap. Maybe you Never Get Just One, though. Also, where do you put them and what do you put in them? I wonder if my mouse is like Nick’s and I can bait the traps with bread, though surely a mouse sophisticated enough to plague me would have more extravagant tastes, expecting croissants at least. I like Kathleen’s idea of filling the entry with steel wool, thus avoiding becoming yet another domestic murderer, but can’t find it.
Mice are much less adorable in real life than in Beatrix Potter stories. I don’t think I’ll ever read them quite the same way. On the other hand, I might find mine cuter if he were wearing a waistcoat and cravat.
Also, if I’m going to start killing four-legged creatures just for having the temerity of co-existing with me, I feel like even more of a hypocrite not eating them. No virtue there, I’m afraid. Next stop: fur coat.