Day Nine: Gretchend

I write today with a heavy feeling in my chest. It's partly because Gretchen died today. It's mostly because I ate too much spaghetti for dinner.
Am I sad that Gretchen is dead? Yes. But I can't help but feel at least partly responsible, given I bought, baited and set the trap that killed her. But I don't accept all the blame, because it's Gretchen's parents fault for making her a mouse. And a common pest mouse who pooed all over my washing up gloves (and probably inside them).



I woke up this morning to find Gretchen stuck in my mouse trap, unable to resist the very classy Bonne Maman marmalade I had baited it with. She was smaller than a normal sized mouse, I would imagine. It's probably because marmalade doesn't have much fat or protein, but a lot of sugar and vitamins. And in an encouraging sign, she probably never left the kitchen after all, which suits a very 1950s style stereotype of a female mouse.
But while it is saddening to see the Gretchend, I can't help but be impressed with the efficiency of this mousetrap, to break the back of an animal without breaking the skin. Even though it's a blunt object I can't help but be impressed. Unfortunately, I lacked the stomach to dispense of Gretchen in a dignified manner, so I put her, still in the mousetrap, in a plastic bag, and threw the whole thing away.
As a humble newspaper journalist I feel I don't quite have the words to give Gretchen an appropriate send-off, but here's a tribute I feel is somewhat fitting.

Day Six: Doubts on naming Gretchen Gretchen

No word on the mouse front to speak of. The trap remains silent and marmalade filled, and Gretchen is as quiet as a...well, you know.
I believe I previously mentioned this, but I wish I hadn't named Gretchen Gretchen. Gretchen is the name of a kitten or a shy but stunning girl, whom I picture as being just like the girl from the show Mad Men. But it's not the name of something which I would attempt to capture with a trap. Unless I could catch a shy but stunning girl called Gretchen with some sort of trap, but I doubt it would work.
And so I've been telling people that I shouldn't have named this mouse Gretchen, because a girl's name seems inappropriate. And they have invariably told me, "Well, is your mouse a boy or a girl?"
How am I supposed to know that? It's a mouse, that I have only seen fleetingly. Besides, mice aren't easily distinguishable by their looks, like an ostrich (note for readers: it's the male ostriches with the bright red lips). So far, the only real way to tell the gender of a mouse is a rather unreliable one. As far as I can tell, male mice wear red shorts and suspenders, and female mice wear gingham dresses with polkadots. As least as far as Walt Disney is concerned.
I was trying to think of an alternative name for my mouse with one specific criteria: That it was a name that would make me more inclined to kill the mouse, rather than less. And I've settled on Damir, after Damir Dokic. After all, if I associate my mouse with Damir Dokic, I would be less in favour of a marmalade flavoured mousetrap, and more in favour of the sort of weapons Damir Dokic keeps in his house. Sadly, the most intimidating weapon I have in my house is actually a knife sharpener, but if you have bad eyesight it looks like a Robin Hood style sword.
That actually works out well, because if you have really bad eyesight, I look like Errol Flynn.
But just as the mouse is settling in my house, the name Gretchen is settling in my mind. So until I meet this shy but stunning girl or get a kitten, the mouse's name remains as is.

Day Five: Gretchen Explores

I have concluded that there is no way Gretchen is still behind the fridge, because a)there is more mouse poo in the under-sink cupboard, and b) who would want to spend all their time behind a fridge.
But the very uncomfortable reality of the situation is that if Gretchen isn't behind the fridge, it means she's elsewhere. You see, it's easier to cope with a mouse if you know exactly where it is and no it is not going anywhere else. It's much more worrying that it is probably elsewhere, exploring, pooing in my slippers (which are presumably very warm and cosy), and making a nest for lots of baby mice somewhere I don't realise until much later on. Here's a list of places Gretchen could be hiding, though I really hope she isn't.



1) The laundry basket. The ironic part of this is that my laundry basket usually sits on a big plastic box which I used to bring my stuff in to Griffith when I moved here. So it was up off the ground and unreachable to any exploring mice. That was until I took the box into the kitchen to use to make a track from the under-sink cupboard to the front door (see earlier post). So for the past few days the laundry basket has been sitting on the floor of the laundry, and it would be a very snug and cosy place for it to hang out.
If Gretchen is in here, it means I am in for one of two shocks:
a) I discover Gretchen when sorting through my laundry and in addition to frightening me into throwing the laundry basket in the air, scattering my laundry with dirty clothes and presumably more mouse poo, Gretchen would probably hide under my washing machine, which is as heavy and difficult to move as my fridge.
b) I don't discover Gretchen when searching through my laundry. I discover her after I've done my laundry, in the bottom of my washing machine, drowned and spun dry. And presumably very clean from all the washing powder I use.



2) In my new guitar. Let me tell you, if Gretchen has made her way into my new guitar all hell is going to break loose. That's a Maton guitar, people. I spent my Rudd stimulus money on that. And I haven't even received my stimulus money yet. If I find mouse poo in my guitar, a marmalade flavoured mouse trap is going to be the best case scenario for Gretchen.



3) Behind the bookcase. Okay, that's far from a bad scenario. A bookcase would be a good place for Gretchen to be hiding. It would be easy to clean up poo and not hard to scare her out. I just wanted to show off all the intelligent and classic literature I have. That red one down the bottom is Ulysses by James Joyce. If you're not impressed by that either you are far too cultured to read this blog, or not smart enough to know that it's impressive. And quite frankly, I hope my average reader isn't thicker than that particular copy of Ulysses (657 pages, small print).



4) In my shoes. The mouse poo would be bad enough, but I'm guessing I wouldn't know there was a mouse in my shoe until I had squashed it. The worst case scenario would be the ones on the bottom left, because I'm meant to where those ones with white socks, according to fashion. So not only would I ruin a good pair of shoes with squashed mouse, but a good pair of socks as well. At least if I was wearing black socks, no-one would know if had dried mouse blood and guts all over it.

I'm now considering scattering food underneath my fridge. Because the more I think about it, under the fridge is by far the best place for having a mouse in my house.

Day Four: Marmalade

I was perusing through the interweb for further indications Joe Sestak is going to challenge Arlen Specter in the Pennsylvanian Senate Democratic primary about twenty minutes ago when I heard a snapping sound from the kitchen. Now, living semi-alone (excluding Gretchen), and in a house too drab to be haunted, I was mystified until something occurred to me.
The only thing in my house that is designed to make noise without any prompting from me is the mousetrap I set for Gretchen. Oh no, thought I. Gretchen had been captured and presumably killed by the mousetrap before I had a chance to blog about the marmalade I set in the trap for her this morning.
I actually did about ten minutes worth of various chores: turning the sprinkler off, emptying the rubbish bin, checking my Facebook, before I went to check the mousetrap. It was as if I was delaying the inevitable in order to build up the nerve to look at the dead body of something I had named this morning.
But after much procrastination I just checked the mousetrap, and it is unoccupied.
So.
After the theft of the bread from the mousetrap overnight, something I'm very indignant about, I decided I needed to be a bit more creative in baiting this trap. Some ideas I had included baiting it with golden syrup, a Corn Flake, leftover roast lamb which I need to throw out, and most daringly, mouse poison. Imagine the sheer stupidity of a mouse dying in the pursuit of mouse poison.
But I settled for something simpler. I have this marmalade in the fridge which I'll never eat. It was from when my Mum came to Griffith to visit, and I considered it wouldn't be wasteful to put some on the mousetrap since I wouldn't be eating it. And I suspect that Gretchens like marmalade.



Now doesn't that look appealing? Could Gretchen resist?

Day Four: Gretchen

I decided it was time to name the mouse in my house, so when speaking to my brother Hugh yesterday I asked for his opinion, then ignored it. Here's a recalled transcript of the conversation:
Nick: What should I call this mouse?
Hugh: Call it Winifred?
Nick: Hmm.
Hugh: Because that way you can call it Winnie.
Nick: How about Gretchen?
Hugh: Winnie's better. I got the idea because you had written so much in the blog about poo.

So I laid the trap for Gretchen last night, baited with a tiny piece of bread. They say to use peanut butter, but I'm not buying peanut butter when the only person who is going to eat it is a mouse. So I was actually kind of dreading coming out today to see a dead mouse in the trap.
But how quickly feelings change. I came out to see not only had the trap been kept in the prone position (is that the right way to describe it), but the bread had been eaten. So not only has Gretchen eaten the food from the bait, but she's probably working on digesting it and turning it into poo as we speak. And if I find mouse poo in my slippers, I'm going to go after this mouse with the phone book.
Perhaps I shouldn't have given this mouse a girl's name considering I'm planning on making it die. Killing a girl seems highly improper.
Updates soon.

Day Three: Buying a mousetrap

Okay, I bought a mousetrap. They said you should put peanut butter on it, but I don't have any peanut butter, and I'll be darned if I'm going to buy a jar of peanut butter if the only person who is going to eat it is a mouse. If I do that, the mouse wins.
Besides, should I get crunchy or smooth.
So it's one of those untraditional new age mousetraps, which is probably why it doesn't recommend cheese. I have cheese but that's too typical. I'm taking another approach and putting bread in it. And have photographed it in it's spot beside the fridge. I've come to the conclusion today after pulling the fridge out from the wall and shining a torch into it's fridge gizzards, or frizzards, that the mouse has somehow escaped the cardboard prison I enclosed it in. But it's going to get hungry, and probably come back to the fridge, as I do. And when it does, it will find this:


So it's just a waiting game at present. It could take a week. It could happen while I'm watching the end of 'There Will Be Blood' tonight. That would be ideal, because I'd be concentrating on imitating Daniel Day-Lewis' classic quote, "I drink your milkshake. I drink it up," to be saddened by this mouse's death.
Personally I'd like to think it lasts for a few more days, because I'd hate to be one of those people who starts a blog and then gives it up a few days later. Besides, I've got plenty more mouse-related blogging in me.

Day Two

My name is Nick, and I have a mouse in my house.
Not only is it something I readily admit and accept, but something I can't stop thinking about.
Imagine the deep and profound discomfort that comes from having a stranger in your house you didn't invite in, but is simply trespassing. You don't know how they got in, where they've been, or what they've touched. They are leaving poo everywhere. Then imagine while you know they are in your house when you aren't there, but more disturbingly, when you are, and then imagine what it would be like if you don't know where it is, and can't get them out. It would be a terrifying and deeply discomforting. Now divide that by about two hundred. That's what it is like having a mouse in your house. You can't relax properly. You know it's there, but you can't get rid of it.
My mouse is behind my fridge. And using a cardboard box my new guitar came in, I have blocked it in, as pictured.


I have also blocked off the hallway as a safety measure, with the other side of the box, as pictured.



Not only that, but I have closed every door in my house, after calculating a mouse probably couldn't fit under the crack in my door.
But that's more than just an inconvenience and reminder of the presence of the mouse, as if I need a reminder. I normally keep my doors open. The inside doors, not the ones leading to the outside world. And I haven't adjusted to the change yet. Not even close to adjusting. As a result I have walked into two closed doors today, despite it being in broad daylight. Instinctive memory compels me not to look at door entrances in my house before I walk through them. And it's not like I had my hand out to break the impact. No, the first sense I've had of the door being closed is the pain felt in my face. It's horrible having the first sensory identification of something being the nerves in your nose, from walking into it.
Stupid door. Stupid mouse.