Fall weather has mice invading my home. I say bring 'em on
Go ahead, mice. Come at me
This First Person piece was written by Craig Silliphant, a writer, editor, critic, broadcaster and creative director based in Saskatoon.
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We were in bed when we heard the strange scratching sound from the heating vent.
I pounded on the vent and shone a light in. The noise stopped, seemingly aware of my presence. Then it started again, real spooky-like.
Was it the furnace groaning to life?
Was it a g-g-ghost?
Or worse…much worse…was it a mouse?
As the weather turns to fall, mice want indoors. They've been roaming the streets with impunity, smoking and playing dice in the alleys, and now they're recruiting a gang to invade our homes.
Sure enough, the next night I caught a little rodent Bruce Willis crawling through the vents.
I imagine him leaving for the office that morning, kissing his wife with briefcase and fedora in hand. Now his wife is fretting, the children are crying, and I'm Tony Soprano dumping Daddy's corpse in the garbage bin outside.
I wasn't always a cold, steely-eyed hunter. I used to be a coward — the kind they write folk songs about.
When we caught our first mouse 15 years ago, I made my wife Jenny deal with it, even though she's terrified of mice.
Jenny is like a cartoon character that jumps on a chair, shouting, "Eek! A mouse!" This would be funny, except she told me that it's not funny at all. I once made squeaking sounds to mess with her, but she reminded me I didn't want a divorce.
Anxiety about mice is understandable. Having pests is stigmatizing. It makes you feel dirty.
Mice chew up your home and carry diseases like hantavirus. It's hard to sleep when you imagine that they're crawling on you, drinking from your water glass, maybe even pooping in your mouth.
"Let's burn the house down," Jenny suggested.
I was never afraid of mice. They're kinda' cute for disease-ridden vermin. My cowardice revolved around killing them. Glassy-eyed dead things scare the bejesus out of me. But society dictates that I should do it because I'm "the man." I'm all for dismantling the patriarchy.
Eight years ago, I managed to redeem myself in my wife's eyes.
It was 3 a.m. I was jolted awake by the sound of Jenny screaming from my infant son's nursery. I bolted out of bed in my underwear. I thought something was wrong with my son. I thought I was about to perform CPR on a baby.
I kicked the door open and saw Jenny holding the baby.
"Eek! A mouse!" she shouted.
I almost turned and left her there for scaring me so badly. Instead I grabbed a plastic bag and tongs. I'm not sure why I wanted tongs or how that was supposed to work. Give me a break, it was 3 a.m.
The mouse bolted like Stuart Little, hurtling over toys, careening around furniture, chancing a panicked look over his shoulder at the scantily-clad, lumbering giant stomping behind him.
He couldn't find a toy car to make his getaway, so he ran out the door into the dining room, where I'd surely lose him.
I closed my eyes and took a breath. I reached out with my tongs and scooped him up like Mr. Miyagi catching a fly with chopsticks.
That night I went from coward, to somewhat-redeemed coward.
I've caught many more mice since then. Now, they fear me. They know when they see me — with my traps, rubber gloves and trademark tongs — that it's already too late.
I am the widowmaker, the marmalizer of mice, the violator of voles, Mickey's Plague.
I am the one who knocks (on the vents).
The mouse in the duct that night must have been from out of town. Maybe he wanted a shot at the title, to write himself into legend as the giant-slayer. But there will be no songs about him sung in mouse taverns.
So go ahead, mice. Come at me. Try to scare my wife and steal my crumbs and make your tiny poops in my home.
Just remember what Omar said on The Wire.
"You come at the king — you best not miss."
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