Mice in the Farmhouse

We live in an old farmhouse. I am accustomed to seeing the occasional mouse in the basement. To hearing the occasional mouse in the ceiling. To finding occasional mousey evidence in the form of chewed-through birdseed bags in the entryway.

I am not accustomed to mice running full speed across the living room floor directly at my feet. Or to seeing them skitter across the counter behind the kitchen sink. Or to hearing them have an all-out clan war in my bedroom in the middle of the night.

Something has happened in the mousey kingdom between last night and the night before and I wish it would end.

We did not hear them going "vroom, vroom, vroooom."

They were not, to our knowledge, riding motorcycles.

We had not seen or heard a mouse for several months. In fact, aside from when they attempted to move into the house last fall before the impending winter, there has not been a problem. Of course, last fall we trapped two a day for a week, so perhaps that properly reduced the population. Still, for months, there was nothing.

And then, last night. I do not know if there were many or just a couple that were crazed, but a mouse was running back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, working up the courage to … DASH … directly at our feet. We both yelped. Then we heard it (or another?) in the entry way. Then we went to bed. Then we heard things clinking in the kitchen. Then we heard them fighting behind our dresser. And running across the bedroom floor. And squeaking under the bed. I didn’t get much sleep last night.

The first thing I did this morning was check to see if there had been a full moon last night. No dice. Can’t blame it on the moon. Then I did a quick Google search to see if there was such a thing as catnip for mice. No results. My theory of a mouse Saturnalia or Bacchanalia was groundless.

No after-party evidence was found.

No after-party evidence was found.

In fact, the only thing that changed between last night and the night before was that my husband did a little work on the chimney. In the process, some debris fell down the wall. Did we crush their home? Do we have a mischief of mice looking for new lodging? More urgently, are they preparing revenge?

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About Industrious Warrior Maiden

Falling out of sleep, into day, into dreams, I float on mixed-up fantasies behind my mocha's steam. Fortified by stacks of Austen, Wilde, and Poe, (and Borges, Bronte, Chekhov, Dostoevsky, and Eco) I dodge the world's madness and my husband's . . . I'd rather not know. Quick to see the laughable; slow to take the quill; Like most of my pursuits, I write when on the grill. Ensconced in random musings, engrossed in random lore, I am the fearful warrior maid, industrious of yore.

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