The Trap
By Bob Stevens, The Muddled Male
There was a time early in our life on
Sweetwater Hill when we were bothered by mice. Or, as a scientist would say, small rodents
that are part of the Muridae or Cricetidae families. Non-scientists just call them a house mouse, because
it is easier to pronounce. Ann, my wife,
called me a mouse once, but I prefer to be called a rat. That may seem strange to you, but where a
mouse is described as a small rodent with a name that is often used to describe
a cowardly or timid person, a rat is described as resembling mice but larger with
a name that is sometimes used to describe a despicable person, especially one
who betrays or informs upon associates.
You may think that being called a rat is a step down from being called a
mouse since a rat is big and ugly while a mouse is little and cute, but if you
had been called, “One of the little guys”
by a tall statuesque friend, as I have, you start to think that being called
anything that makes you feel manlier, a step up.
I tell you about our earlier battle with
mice to help you better understand the source of some pain and anguish I
recently suffered. When we first started
thinking that we might have a rodent problem, there were two places where we
occasionally saw a mouse. One was behind
a free-standing, propane fired stove in our downstairs family room where the
point at which the propane pipe penetrates the wall there is a slight gap big
enough to serve as a mouse entrance.
Knowing that Ann is partial to cute little fur-persons, and not wanting
to excite her wrath by causing a part of the Muridae family to exit mortality
in a less than humane way, I chose a sticky trap. A poor choice, as it turned out, because the
first time I came up the stairs carrying a sticky trap with a cute little
fur-person stuck prostrate in the trap from chin to tail, Ann saw that the
mouse was still alive and moving his cute, soulful eyes around in an obvious
plea for help. So to get out of trouble I
changed from a sticky trap to the Jaws
of Death.
Now the sticky trap is subtle in its
approach and ensnares the mouse gradually as the mouse struggles to get free, but
the Jaws of Death does it all
in one resounding WHACK with no
questions asked, no quarter given. The Jaws of Death trap looks like a
set of spring loaded dentures with the false teeth shaped into points. Located in the middle, where the tongue would
be, is a yellow paddle attached to a trigger mechanism which, when the paddle
is depressed slightly, releases the teeth to snap angrily together. In the middle of the trap is a small cup into
which one can place irresistible bait, such as miniature chocolate chips, and
which is surrounded by the paddle. As
soon as the unsuspecting mouse extends his head between the jaws and places his
tiny little feet on the paddle to get closer to the chocolate, WHACK.
All that is left is for Bob, the Rat, to sneak out of the house with the
now expired mouse and deposit it in the trash without Ann spotting him along
the way.
All of that is a prelude to my tale of
pain and anguish. We haven’t seen a
mouse for some time now, but my engineering instincts caused me to keep a trap
or two in place just in case a mouse happens to slip past my defensive perimeter. Because someone was coming to look at our
house and I didn’t want them to think that a paranoid engineer lived here, I
went downstairs to move the traps out of sight so as to prevent a mistaken
impression. Because I was in a hurry I
just reached down to pick up a still set trap, being careful not to spill the
chocolate chips on the floor, when WHACK. In the place where there normally would have
been an expired mouse, my thumb lay clamped between two rows of clenched and
pointed false teeth. I admit that it
slowed me down a little since I couldn’t go back upstairs until I stopped
crying. I also had to pick up the
chocolate chips that were now flung all over the floor.
The troubling thing was that Ann, my
wife, began reciting that old saying from our childhood, “cry baby whiny mouse, laid an egg in grandma’s house.” I’m afraid she may never look at me as a manly
rat again. On top of that, she accused
me of getting caught because I was trying to sneak a chocolate chip.
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