Christmas Mouse

'Twas the night before Christmas

and all through the house

not a creature was stirring

not even a mouse

Clement Moore (or whoever truly penned the above verses) got it wrong. 

It was nearly the night before Christmas, and while all were out doing last minute shopping or socializing, Thinking I was alone and away from peeking eyes, I took the opportunity to shut myself in the kitchen and sat at the breakfast table to wrap my gifts.  As I sat cutting folding and taping, I caught sight of a bounding fluff of gray crossing the floor and then hopping into the cupboard.  After a double-take, I confirmed it was not a ball of dog fur (known in these parts as 'Strider down').  'Strider down' is constantly and abundantly shed upon the floor where it gathers into rodent-morphological shapes and is then blown deceptively across the room, mimicking mice. 
This was no drill. 
I was not deceived. 
It was the Christmas Mouse!

After I set my gifts to the family beneath the tree, I set a couple of gifts for the Christmas Mouse.  I decided to gift him with peanut butter (creamy style) coated cheddar cheese wrapped in a snappy little apparatus.  Apparently he was delighted, as the next morning he had enjoyed the yuletide morsels and vacated the pantry leaving behind an undisturbed apparatus plus a few turds.

I was now in a generous mood, so I regifted him with more cheese and PB, one location in the pantry and one next to the fridge.  He was pleased to accept what I offered.  Same results and a few more turds.  I then got preoccupied with the holidays and such and left my traps unbaited.

Husband Failure:  "Mark, we have a mouse problem in our kitchen"  I am told by my wife.  I admitted that I already knew that, and I had tried to deal with the Christmas Mouse, but he had taken complete advantage of my hospitality and then I kind of figured I'd let him go on until New Year.  That was going to be my one resolution - No Christmas Mouse on Ground Hog's Day. 
"Deal with it" she says with her eyes.

It was now a week or so into January and I needed reminding that I had a problem to deal with.  I returned to the PB & Cheddar (one of Elvis' favorite sandwiches) and I worked very hard, at the risk of breaking a nail, to set the trigger mechanism on a very light touch.  As if carrying a ticking bomb, I knelt to the floor with my trap gently gripped between index finger and thumb.  It's all in the wrist I remind myself as I gently place the trap on the floor, unjarred, unsprung.  Yes, when it comes to catching mice, I am the "Unsprung Hero."

It was not but a minute or two before the crack of my sprung trap alerted me to a chance for validation, either immediate gratification or immediate mortification.  Ding Dong. The Christmas Mouse has tasted his last PB & Cheddar.  But I left the second trap in the pantry just in case.  The next morning, my suspicions were confirmed, no more Dasher, and now no more Dancer.

Still not completely confident I had atoned for my earlier failure, I left one baited trap out.  I noticed someone has been licking off the creamy peanut butter and not eating their cheese!  I retired from the field to plan my next strategy while watching playoff football.

"Mark, we still have a mouse problem."  Yeah, I thought so, I am thinking about it. 

"No.  He's in the pantry right now."

No more time for thought, this requires action.  I grab the fireplace ash shovel and stride into the kitchen.  Sue is moving items out from the pantry floor one at a time while I stand poised to strike.  I spanked her lightly with the shovel while she was engrossed in the mouse hunt - maybe that was not a good time to play.  Once we get beyond the last few boxes of mac & cheese, like Captain Ahab aloft in the rigging of the Pequot; the cry is heard, "There He is!" as she points to a tail hiding behind the canned plum sauce, "There He is!"

Sue is not really anything close to a squeamish girl, but nobody really wants to watch reality whack-a-mole played when blood and brains could be involved.  She left the room. 

I reminded her, "Not to fear my 'Little Lady', why I once battled a rat in my kitchen as a graduate student, finally emerging victorious after stabbing the rat through the throat with a blade screwdriver."  This is a story she knows well, and is the primary reason that she asked me marry her.

After a few loud and clanging "practice shots", I connected and scooped up the body and paraded Christmas Mouse #3 (Donner) out to the mighty mouse grave yard.

Back to my mid-winter's nap.