Within our House resides a Mouse. Not in a cage, not in a box. A free range mouse is scurrying around the skirtings of my abode this very moment, as free as a 42 year old divorcee called Deborah, every alternate weekend.
Why, you ask? Because, internet, my husband has fucking lost the elusive plot to an extent so insane that he firstly refuses to cage and convert the critter to a pet because “That would just be cruel to confine him after he has only ever been free”. No problem says the ever sane wife, we will just gently re-home him into some naturally lush shrubbery nearby. No Sir-ee. Not fucking good enough for husband, free range House Mouse does not know how to survive in the wild and, according to the words of a mad man, will certainly perish in the harsh climatic conditions of suburban bushland and die a slow gruelling death without food, water or shelter.
Fun fact time. Did you know a mouse can poop its body weight 3 times a day?
Did you know that a 3cm tiny little mousey mouse mouse can easily climb into the pipings of a vaccum cleaner, but not get himself out and require a human to gently but consistently tug on his litle mouse limbs whilst he squeels like a mating mongoose on the southern banks of machu pichu? Surely you would assume that the mouse matriach husband would attend to this particualr mouse-tastrophey?, but nooooo, he loves his mouse from afar. He stands at the furtherest corner and directs the extraction. Husband is petrified of rodents. The irony is a bright, bright shade of What the fuck, husband?
Did you know mice like to chew on shoes, books, toothbrushes and bedframes? At 2am. Do you know that a tiny little mouse can make enough noise to awaken a slumbering person at 3am EVERY SINGLE FUCKING NIGHT. NIGHT AFTER NIGHT. EACH NIGHT.
Dear Mouse: Unless there is an appocolypse fast approaching, and you need to save enough food and half eaten shoes for all of us, Please go the fuck to sleep you ungrateful fluffy bastard.
and so friends, I find myself in a house mouse pickle. As a part time vegan and full time non animal murderer, I cannot mouse trap the resident rodent, and his furriness also happens to be Usain Bolt’s critter cousin and cannot be captured with the current speed and velocity of my middle aged thighs. Lunatic husband is refusing participation on any level on moral grounds.
What do I do. where do I turn for solace and sound house mouse advisery?
