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All’s fair in Mice and War, or Of Mice and Men (killing those mice)

So it has been approximately two months since I have posted anything on this blog, and I figured I owed to my fans to get back to it and keep you all up dated on my life (also I got tired of people telling me about how much better jack is at this PC blog thing than I am). So I figured I would start off with a blog that highlights the most important and time consuming project I am working on right now. Now it was hard to decide what this was, between the micro-business I am setting up with a group of local women, the trash and recycling project I am working on with the environmental director at the mayor’s office, and the GPS work I am doing with the Catastro department. But after looking at all the option it became clear to me: it’s my ongoing war with the mice that live in my house.

Some of you may already know of this brutal six month long campaign I have been waging against dangerous rebel factions living in the walls and ceilings of my casita. (This is because it is rarely far from my mind, and tends to work its way into most of my conversations.) However for those of you not up to date on this ongoing conflict, I recommend checking out the New York Times coverage of the struggle. (Just kidding, their coverage of the event is totally biased and unfairly critical of my repressive tactics). So I’ll take it upon myself to present you all with a brief history of the conflict.

When I moved into my house it had been uninhabited for years, except my landlords somewhat unbalanced uncle who squatted there amidst trash and broken furniture, as well as a mountain of corn cobs (never really figured that one out). So, when I moved in I cleaned in out and threw out all of the junk and cleaned it thoroughly. Unfortunately the mice who had been co-habiting with my landlord’s uncle didn’t get the message to move out. Instead they decided to stick around and pillage my food, chew up my work papers, and poop and pee everywhere (including in the ceiling above my bed… you can imagine where that ends up when it falls through the ceiling cracks). Now not being a doctor I’m not sure of the medical repercussions of having mouse poop fall on you, or in your eating area, but I can’t imagine that they are positive. So I thought I would solve the problem by buying a mouse trap and cementing up their holes. Man was I wrong, apparently Honduran mice are some smart sneaking little guys, since they kept stealing the bate from the traps and digging new tunnels. (By this point in our war I am fairly certain that they have an intricate series of tunnels running through my walls reminiscent of Vietcong bunkers. For this reason I have never ventured to stick my hand into one of the holes for fear of tiny pungi stick booby-traps.)

I’ll save you the details, but this war has gotten ugly. I have resorted at various times to poisoning them, glue trapping them, hitting one with a machete when he jumped out of the truck bench seat I use as a couch, and once even trying an ill advised flame thrower attack (I tried to blow bug spray at a lit match into their hole (Sorry mom). Needless to say this resulted in no dead mice and some singed eyebrows). I even took a page out of Momar’s book and brought in outside mercenaries to brutally repress them (too soon?), though in my case these foreign fighters are cats that climb into my ceiling at night. I have also taken defensive maneuvers such as storing food in bags hanging from the ceiling (it’s like I’m permanently camping, but worried about mice instead of bears), and tacking up a tarp to cover the holes in my ceiling over my bed. Though as varied and desperate as my tactics are, they are not as wild as my friend Jesse who has killed mice in his house by drowning them, smashing them with a beer crate and even once by tossing boiling water from his coffee maker on one who was running across his counter.

I should note though, that this has not been a one sided battle, the mice have not just rolled over and surrendered, but have instead led some daring counter offensives (from this we know they aren’t French mice). They have at various times snuck into a closed suitcase to eat (and poop in) a bag of pistachios my mom sent me, dove from a crack in the ceiling into a bag I hung from the ceiling to eat (and poop in) another bag of pistachios, and climb a shirt in my closet (actually just a broom handle hanging from the ceiling that I hang cloths on) to eat (and, oh yes, poop on) the last of the homemade cookies Alyson sent me. (Hint: If you want me to love and worship you eternally like I now do Alyson, feel free to send me baked goods and candy as well). Hopefully now you can understand my indignation and rage at these clearly malicious acts (eating my food is one thing but pooping on it afterwards is just going too far), and why I have been forced to take such drastic actions. Now, if the collective kill count of 23 confirmed mice, (and I can only assume my walls are choked with dead mice after my liberal use of poison pellets) just remember, they ruined two bags of pistachios, ate two homemade cookies, and (oh yeah, let’s not forget) POOPED ON MY PILLOW.