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Tuesday, July 22, 2014
He (or she) had it comin'Posted Thursday, November 1, 2007, at 10:10 PM
This writing may be my demise, especially in light of recent events involving dog fighting and animal abuse. Many dogs and cats have passed through my life and I have had a special place in my heart for each and every K-9, feline and equine, with a spattering of feathered friends amongst them. And although there are none in my domain at the moment, I still have a soft spot for each and every one. There is one species, however, for which I have no mercy. Tis the rodent!!!
The mere mention of the species makes my skin crawl and seek out the nearest point of elevation, whether it be a chair or tableâ€*this old body can clear hurdles to find respite from the beady-eyed, pointy-nosed, quick-paced, hairy little basâ€*.uhâ€*creatures. I believe I could easier contend with an irate ex than a scampering little â€*.MOUSEâ€*even a Minnie! The darting little menace might as well be a seven-foot tall long-haired Bigfoot. It couldn't evoke any more terror.
When I lived in the country, the little devils would sometimes find their way into my abode via the teeniest of crevices during hay baling seasons. I'd keep traps set and if ever the clap of that spring awoke me in the night, I would remain sleepless till dawn. And if ever the clap did not invoke the immediate demise of the culprit, and it would be subject to emitting the teeniest of squeaks, it would compound the severity of the situation. Although there was a now-ex present, he was not to be awakened for such a "trivial" concern on my part. He's an "ex" with good reason. I've been known to spend many a night atop a chair in waiting.
And so, in this present single status of mine, knowing that I would never be capable of disposing of a conventional trap (at least an occupied one), I resorted to another means by which to entrap the little varmints that wreaked havoc on my life as I know it. It's called a sticky trapâ€*a gooey little device, plastic in nature, filled about 1/8th inch thick with a substance that, once stepped upon, will not release its victim. It's an ingenious little device that I wish had been conceived in my own little Minnie mind. But the next best thing is being able to utilize it.
NOW, I know that some animal advocates will berate me unmercifully for promoting the use of this simple little contraption that not only traps the little beady-eyed basâ€*uh, rodents, but then deals them a horribly heartless passing that sometimes lasts for hours on end as they struggle for freedom.
You're not going to find any sympathy here. I say that's what they get for entering my household uninvited. Let â€˜em suffer. I don't care. Doesn't bother me in the least..well, maybe just a teensy bit, but nothing to speak of.
Oftentimes, their front spindly, skinny little legs will get imbedded in the glue, since they've approached the sticky tray to get to the morsel of poison at the center (which apparently isn't quick-acting). When that occurs, it leaves their teensy little spindly back legs free to scratch incessantly on the floor's surface. They closely resemble a cartoon where the roadrunner, or similar star, gets no traction as they spin their wheels aimlessly upon a takeoff. Occasionally, however, with these sticky devices, they do get a little traction, especially if it's on a carpeted surface and so you might return home at the end of a workday to find your sticky trap, fully occupied, relocated in your place of residence.
And that would explain the reason for this writing. About twice a year, I catch one of the little varmints and today marked the semi-annual event. I keep a sticky trip in my pantry "just in case." It's been there for several months collecting dustâ€*until today. And so here is what transpired and inspired this writingâ€*
Upon returning home at the end of a long day, I instantly recognized the dark-colored little 3x4 tray, misplaced in the kitchen floor, having been moved by some force from it's pantry home. Upon closer examination, which consisted of yours truly standing back about eight feet and looking out of the corner of one eye for any living creature who had taken up residence within the little rectangle, I indeed saw not only a tiny grayish matter, but a quivering little grayish matter. No telling how long it had been fighting for life in the little puddle of glue. One can only hope it was all day long.
So now, I had a mission. How in the world was I going to do away with this still squirming little rodent? I even heard an occasional "eeeeeeek," which only increased my hope that it had been an all-day affair. The very nerve of entering my house. He had it coming. I only regret that he wasn't traveling with a friend on his heels (which raises the eternal questionâ€*do they have heels? I really don't want to know the answer).
At any rate, I did what any brave, God-fearing menopausal woman would do. I retrieved my kitchen broom with the intention of allowing just one straw from the broom to attach to the glue, thereby enabling me to drag it to the front door and hurl it out into the wild blue yonder, broom and all if necessary, where I could only hope that a feline might traipse across the yard and take it for a further ride (although I wouldn't wish for the feline to come in contact with the gluey stuff).
SO, I proceeded to try to attach the broom, but it was not to be. I believe six months of dust finally met its match. Well, at least I could "sweep" it out the front door. I had to look off to the side while implementing this plan. The sight of the little beast still fighting was just more than I could handle. But with each swooooosh of the broom came just a few inches of achievement. And then one swoosh sent it flyingâ€*about a four foot gain, but when the beady-little basâ€*rodent landed, still imbedded in his new residence, he was upside-down. Well, at least I didn't have to look off to the side any more, that was until I saw the little upside-down tray rising thruuuump, thruuuuumpâ€*.with every beat of it's scrawny little heart, the upside-down plastic trap rose in the air off the living room carpet. Time to turn my head again and take another swoosh. Then came the revelationâ€*I opened the front door. It was about an eight-foot goal to the front porch. I stepped back, still looking off to the side. I took stanceâ€*much like Jack Nicklaus on the final hole in sudden death of the US Open, going for the green jacket. I sent the little varmint sailingâ€*.right into the wall. It was now getting personal.
I took aim once more, flopped the varmint, sticky trap and all, with heart still thrummmmping, thrummmmping and with one last heave, sent him (or her..I didn't check) through the air once again, but this time out the door and onto the porch. One more swoosh and he (or she) came to rest, trap and all, among the hostas..a fitting demise, I thought. It was almost like a burial, just lacked a few kind words (where's a preacher when ya need one?) and a blessing, something like, "Beady-eyes to beady-eyes, dust-to-dust, glue-to glue..
I never looked backâ€*to the side a few times, but never back. Replaced the broom in the utility room and prided myself in a job well-done.
Who needs a significant other anyway?
My only fear is that in the dead of night tonight, I'll hear the thrummmmp-thrummmmp of the little basâ€*.rodent, not unlike the beating Tell-Tale Heart of Edgar Allen Poe, until it drives me looneyâ€*there's comfort in knowing I'm halfway there.
My own son, who can shoot a deer looking him in the eye and an innocent squirrel in a tree (the squirell's own domain, I might add), says I have a cruel heart. It's not that at all. I just have no mercy for a mouseâ€*not even a Minnie Mouse.
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