The smell stunned it, yes, but my deft kung-fu surely killed it
Our apartment stinks.
Which is not to say we’re messy; on the contrary, Lis and I clean obsessively. But we’ve been administering homespun pest deterrents of late, and the results have been fairly noxious. For instance, we had a mosquito problem this summer — poor Lis, she’s like an all-night Denny’s to them. Anyway, our friend Finn (soon to be Finn Who Brewed Me Beer In His Closet, but we’ll save that post for later) suggested putting out little saucers of amonia. He claimed this was common practice, growing up in Australia — that it dried out the air, effectively mummifying the bloodsuckers.
Did I mention that Finn brews beer in his closet? One listens carefully to a man of such learning.
So, for a while, our home reeked of amonia. But the seasons have since changed, and we’re no longer concerned with mosquitoes: just the other day, Lis spotted a mouse. Me, I’ve had some experience killing rodents, having lived in Spanish Harlem and Deep, Deep, Nether Harlem prior to Brooklyn, but I wasn’t able to put down traps until after the weekend. See, my little nephew was visiting, and it would’ve taken approximately .002 seconds before he had a trap glued to his forehead, or hanging off his little finger. (We share the same genes. It was an inevitability.)
In the meantime, we tried something a friend’s mother had once advised: dousing cotton swabs in mint extract and strategically placing them at points of entrace and/or egress. Apparently, mice hate the smell of mint. Well, sure, whatever — if my nephew wanted to pop one in his mouth, I figured it wouldn’t kill him, and the smell was definitely an improvement over amonia.
Flash forward to this morning: I had to reboot our wireless router — my days, you see, are consumed by household tasks, chores, and responsibilities, since I weigh 320 lbs. and am confined to a wheelchair. No, just kidding. But, anyway, the router is located in a warm corner of the living room, nestled amongst a six-jack extension cord and modem — and herein was where I encountered our mouse.
It was very much alive. It was looking right at me. Lis was in the shower, I was just back from the gym — and I was wholly unprepared. No traps, no weapons — the mouse couldn’t have choosen a worse time to attack. Realizing I’d been summarily defeated (and how embarrassing! like realizing the person you’ve been talking about is standing right behind you, only the person’s a mouse, and you’ve been discussing — at great length — how you’re going to kill her), I whispered, “All right — you win. Now, go away.”
But it wouldn’t move. In my limited experience, mice are supposed to dart around when chanced upon — which meant this little bastard was essentially mocking me. “Seriously,” I hissed. “Scram! Vamose!” And when he still wouldn’t move, I was forced to tiptoe to the closet for a broom, and nudge him a few inches along the wall. Finally, I worked him out around an end table, into the open expanse of the living room; in return, he rolled onto his back. What the fuck — passive resistance? Only in Brooklyn.
Now, I’m no mouse doctor, but I have to assume the mint debilitated him. Whether it attacked his central nervous system, or convinced him to start acting like a stick of gum, I’m really not qualified to say — but I had the choice of either shoving this mouse back under the sofa, or getting a glove and carrying him outside.
Yeah: all of a sudden, the mouse didn’t appreciate being disturbed, squiggling and squealing as I carried him downstairs by the tail — but I was past the point of sympathizing. To think, I’d actually spent two, whole minutes debating whether glue traps or “snap” traps were more humane, just to find myself openly mocked. Totally egregious.
I tossed him to the curb, already shaping this story in the retelling; once I was back upstairs, and comfortably situated at my desk, I waited for Lis to return from the shower. Even then, I gave her a moment more to begin getting dressed.
“Hey,” I called, nonchalantly. “Guess what I just did?”
“What?” she muttered.
“While you were in the shower? I killed a mouse with my bare-fucking-hands. That’s what.”
(Of course, I didn’t kill it kill it: from my second-floor vantage point, I can confirm that the mouse actually suffered a little mint-induced, mousey heart attack shortly after being deposited outside. Serves it right, too. Making me get out of my wheelchair and everything.)
