Eeeek!
I do not do rodents. Or snakes. Or spiders. Or cockroaches. Everything else I can handle. We all have phobias and these are mine, people.
The funny thing about this is: I have a cat. And he’s a really good mouser. So, the rooms of the apartment he’s allowed into bear no evidence of the amazing invasion. Just my kitchen has signs of mice. Horatio, the demon mouse-hunter, is not allowed in the kitchen because he eats my house plants and flips over the trash can. (That’s him lounging in my bathroom sink while I furiously cleaned up before Thanksgiving.)
Now that I have to get some mice poison Horatio is really not going to be allowed in the kitchen. I can’t do mousetraps. I just can’t. We had mice when I was a teenager and I could hear the distinctive “snap!” noise at 4am and I knew what had happened.
Not that I mind killing the rodents. Die, mousy, die. (Did I mention that I don’t do rodents?) But, it’s the snapping noise I can’t take. I had one mouse who got snapped run screeching in agony under my bed. Picture that sound accompanied by teen-me standing in the middle of my bed shrieking until my younger brother fished the mouse out and finished it off.
So, yeah. No snappity mousetraps. Must get poison.
