Rodent Chauffeur: My New Career

What do you do when a mouse refuses to die?

This is the question I have been pondering for the last six days.

Despite the fact that I have never and will never do the irish mickey kick at the prospect of residing with a four legged tailed scavenger, there’s something about this one that I am forced to admire. All his predecessors have sucumbed, but not he. 

He’s skipped around my eleborate maze trap.

He’s resisted peanut butter and cracker tempation.

He’s been as silent as an ant army for the whole six days he’s been joy riding in my van and by that I mean he’s brilliantly lulled me into believing I was hearing things like a crazy person on the two occassions my ears pricked up. I should never have doubted myself. I have Sonic Rodant Hearing since moving into a camper van.

He’s one tactical error was to scout enemy territory while I was munching on museli. We eyeballed each other for a long ten seconds and he retreated only because I shook my fist his way and screamed, ‘Vagabond!’. I then had a long conversation with my Border Collie pup, gently explaining to her she had to forget a career as a ratter.

So. After a broken nights sleep toileting said Border Collie never-to-be-ratter pup who has a diarrhoea problem guarenteed to turn your stomach, I continue my quest for answers.

How do you trap a cunning mouse? Does stregic bravery and a mind of iron gain a rat entry to the Rodent Protection Program? How does one  sell Mouse Lalaland like ice to an eskimo?

I will persue these questions in more depth after I’ve cleaned up puppy poop slime.

xx Trouser Girl

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