Of Mice and Men

 Among the many excellent qualities I inherited from my mother is a visceral hatred for invasive rodents.  Mice have no place in human habitations, and when they are audacious enough to make entry therein, they are to be destroyed with haste and extreme prejudice.  This is, at least ostensibly, part of the reason that from infancy, at least one cat has always been allowed residence in the house.  I vivid childhood memories of my mother cackling hysterically at the sound of a mousetrap snapping as she gleefully proclaimed, "I got you, you little son of a bitch!"  

Though I would adopt the invective somewhat later in life, her mouse-hating ethos animated many childhood activities, among which was a game my brothers and I invented wherein each of us would choose a cat to compete, and then, cat in hand, we would enter the granary and kick around scaring out the mice for the cats.  The cat who caught the most mice, and by extension, that cat's sponsor, was the winner.

Thusly biased, it comes as no great surprise that I experienced deep disgust upon discovering an abundance of rats (insert joke about the U.S. Congress here) scurrying around the streets of Washington, D.C., and the parking lots of The Catholic University of America.  Having coexisted with humans for centuries, these rats are unusually skilled at avoiding efforts to exterminate them by means of emphatic footfall or projectile brick.  It was a moment of deep satisfaction, as a result, when I recently managed to curb stomp one of the nasty little disease-bearing vermin while traversing the sidewalks of this urban jungle I currently inhabit.  The joy was short-lived.

Temperatures have recently dropped in D.C., and we experienced the first snowfall of the season.  Man and mouse alike, under these circumstances, seek shelter from the cold.  My suite maintains a cozy temperature suitable for studying in sweatpants and slippers.  I was thus attired and engaged when, from the corner of my eye, I noticed a scurrying motion.  It was an audacious mouse, foolhardy enough to trespass in my room.  I roared the warcry of my mother's people. "You little son of a bitch."  Taking note of the direction in which it scurried, I made a quick inventory of my room, seeking an appropriate weapon to engage my foe in mortal combat.  Few objects recommended themselves for the task, leaving me to settle for a backscratcher as a makeshift cudgel/coup stick.  The game was afoot.  

I searched for some minutes, but the coward had disappeared into some dark recess.  I returned to my studies, making sure to keep my unlikely baton within easy reach.  While reading, my bloodlust reminded me that I needed to make arrangements for a pheasant hunt.  Glad for the distraction, I set aside my book and picked up the phone and called my prospective host.  Somewhere after discussing the weather but before arriving at calf prices, the mouse reappeared.  After overturning a shelf of religious art and nearly dumping another shelf full of books on the floor, I disappointedly returned to the call.  Curious as to what he had said to merit me calling him a son of a bitch, I explained to the fellow that I had, for the second time in as many hours, failed in my attempt to murder a mouse.  Not long later, we concluded our chat, and I made a more thorough investigation of my room.  There were, in a couple of locations, forgotten mousetraps.  I had noticed them when I first occupied this room, and had left them, figuring they were there for a reason.  Using my mouse club now to extend my reach, I retrieved the traps with a giggle.  If it was a war this mouse wanted, it was a war he would get.  I reset the traps.  Necessity being the mother of invention, I baited them with some bits of popcorn.  And then I waited.  

And I wait still.  Neither trap has sprung.  The bait appears untouched.  My foe has made no further appearance, nor have I encountered any evidence of his ongoing presence.  As yet, I have had no cause to issue hereditary cackle or gleeful expletive.  But I have defeated foes far more wily than he who plagues me now.  I have no doubt that his apparent absence belies a much more sinister plot to invade my territory with the assistance of allies.  And I will be ready when they come.  By Monday, I will be in possession of a dozen more traps and what Amazon reviewers agree is a very effective poison.  If I have learned anything from Reagan and the Presidents Bush, wars are most quickly won with shock, awe, and overwhelming force.  

I will not lose.  The mouse must cede all claim on my room or he must be destroyed.  There is no room for compromise.  No quarter shall be granted.  Total annihilation is the only acceptable outcome of further aggression.