Rodents are a part of life here. Everyone has them, has had them or will get them. In some parts of Africa, they have put rats to use sniffing out mines left behind from past wars or conflicts. You can’t drive for more than an hour without seeing someone standing on the side of the road selling rats of varying sizes on strings tied to a stick, but the most entertaining thing, to me at least, is that every rodent whether a mouse, a common house rat or a ground rat (that looks something like a miniature capybara) is a rat. So maybe my title should be “Twenty-One Steps to Getting Rid of the Rat in Your House”… What I had, however, was a mouse, so we’ll stick with what we’ve got.
Step One: Recognize you probably have an unwanted guest in your house. Perhaps you see mouse droppings (and pray they aren’t carrying one of the deadly diseases mice are known for) or you go to slice your loaf of bread for toast in the morning and find a tunnel has been eaten from one end to the other.
Step Two: Curse the mouse. Curse the mouse’s house. Curse the mouse’s family and their cow while you clean up and throw away your freshly baked bread.
Step Three: Forget about the mouse.
Step Four: Sit on your couch, perhaps watching a movie or reading a book, and watch the mouse scamper from your kitchen into your hallway, losing sight of it when it ducks behind a wall.
Step Five: Again curse the mouse.
Step Six: Spend what seems like hours searching to no avail.
Step Seven: Spend a week looking for the mouse as you slowly go insane from the scurrying and quiet squeaks.
Step Eight: Stumble upon the mouse, both of you jumping sky high, but realize he is a mouse as you fail to catch up to him even though he struggled to find traction on your tile floor.
Step Nine: Step up your game. Invite the cockroaches over for a game of poker. Unfortunately, the cockroaches are cockroaches and you soon find yourself in trouble.
Step Ten: Get rid of cockroaches.
Step Eleven: Make a call. Your friend’s cat is willing to take the contract, but she demands payment in tuna. You’re desperate, so you agree, making plans for her to spend the weekend.
Step Twelve: Lay in bed that night, tears streaming down your face because you can hear the mouse. He seems to be mocking you.
Step Thirteen: Enough is enough. You swing yourself out of bed and flip on the lights, or you know, don’t because there’s no power. Where’s that flashlight? With flashlight in hand, you channel your inner Sherlock Holmes and go in search of the offending houseguest.
Step Fourteen: Having located the mouse behind your dresser in his quest to eat the oatmeal you have stashed in your “go bag”, devise a plan using a curtain rod to flush him out.
Step Fifteen: Execute your plan. He runs. You strike. He jumps. You veer. He flies around the corner in search of escape, but you cut him off laughing, “not this time, Jerry!” He spots your duffle bag lying on the floor just a few feet away and bolts for some sort of safety from the crazed giant with a curtain rod.
Step Sixteen: Pick up duffle bag calmly and walk it around the corner to the front door, shaking it every so often to assure yourself the mouse is still there and make sure he doesn’t get any ideas about climbing out.
Step Seventeen: Struggle to get your front door open with one hand. The key sticks a couple of times.
Step Eighteen: Curse your door and the mediocre construction.
Step Nineteen: Carry duffle (mouse still inside) through the door and hold it over the edge of the verandah.
Step Twenty: Watch as the mouse kamikazes out of the duffle bag from the second floor verandah and watch as he hits the ground and scurries away as fast as his tiny legs can carry him.
Step Twenty-One: Return to bed and sleep like a baby for the first time in weeks.
For the record, I haven’t had a mouse in my apartment since. I can only hope the mouse returned to his friends and family with horror stories of the crazed giant and warnings to steer clear of that particular apartment.