Mouse-acre (like massacre, get it?)

The seventy acres around the house was harvested and mowed, shaving the wheat and fescue off to stubble. That really upset the resident rodent population, let me tell you. No longer able to scamper around in stealth mode, under cover of grass, they have made the decision to move to safer digs.

Some have gone to the barn. Some to the pool house. Some to the cool darkness under the house. And some think they belong in the house, more specifically in the cupboard under the Jenn-aire, where the downdraft exits through the subflooring and provides a nice stairway to heaven. That is, my kitchen. Where a war for turf is being waged with deadly results.

That's the cupboard I have been keeping my toaster. Not any more... Here's why;

I set a trap in the cupboard just to see what it might yield. It caught a mouse. Then, another the next night. Then, I set two traps. Two mice, for God's sake. Okay, I am on to something. This is no advance mission/point man thing. This is a full on assault. I took out Sun Tzu and reviewed it. Emboldened by the master's words, I bravely strove on.

I set another trap, a single this time, gooey with Tillamook cheddar and Adam's all natural peanut butter (extra crunchy). Upon my arrival home from work, I checked the cupboard. My skin burned with released adrenaline and surprise. My eardrum felt like it was going to burst from the shriek that was emitted by my son's girlfriend who was bravely peeking out from behind me. The cupboard looked like the scene of a mass and bloody murder. Smears of blood covered the bottom of the cupboard, the sides up to five or six inches, and the side of the toaster (I know, I know, take the toaster out of the area of infestation...). Feces abounded, indicating that the rodent had been fighting the trap for some time. (Like maybe three and a half minutes, long enough to shit eighty-five times.)

There was no dead mouse, just an empty trap with a little tuft of grey hair. It really made me feel ill, and kinda sad. But, thus is the Art of War. I resolved to do the tough thing. I called George to clean up the mess.

But, before he could, I noticed a mouse, live, hanging out in the back of the cupboard. I took out the drip pan he was in and he sedately allowed himself to be slid into a bag. Without outwardly visible physical injury, I couldn't be sure, but it would seem that this guy was the source of the blood. He seemed a little dazed. So, according to the Art of War, I took the prisoner, and made a commander's decision. I called George to dispatch him.

Exhausted from my command ordeal, I poured myself an adult beverage and put my feet up, waiting for George to finish up so we could talk out my experience. Leadership is exhausting.