Denise was checking the kitchen cabinets to see what we needed for Thanksgiving when she suddenly called to me, “Come here and see this.”

I hustled over and looked at one of the shelves above the kitchen counter.

“Did somebody spill a box of raisins?” I asked.

“Those aren’t raisins, you turkey. They’re mouse turds.”

“Ew,” I said. “I hate mice. How the hell did he get up there?  It’s five feet above the ground.”

“Mice are pretty flexible. They can get anywhere in the house.”

We removed everything from the shelf and discovered packets of Knorr side dishes and McDonald’s ketchup shredded and their contents devoured.  After cleaning out the debris, I promised to get a trap the next day.

Later that night, right after I had climbed into bed, my night owl daughter Nicole was making a snack in the kitchen when I suddenly her shriek.  I came lumbering down the stairs.

“I heard him,” she gasped. “He’s in the bottom cabinet where we keep the baking pans.”

We removed the pots and pans and looked in the cabinet with a flashlight. We saw some debris but didn’t see him.

“OK, I’ll get two traps tomorrow,” I promised.

The next morning, I came downstairs to find the kitchen cabinets barricaded. Boxes, including my toolbox, were pushed up against all of the cabinet doors.

“Paranoid much?” I muttered.

I went over to my local supermarket and looked for a humane mouse trap.  Let’s just say “humane” is not a word you’re likely to see on d-Con boxes.  I was satisfied with one that promised “no contact with the mouse,” bought two and brought them home.

These were glue traps, with the bait luring the mouse into the container, where he would get stuck to the inside surface.  We set it up on the edge of a shelf in the lower cabinet so that, on contact, the mouse-filled trap would fall into a small trash basket, giving us another level of separation from the rodent.  We closed the cabinet door and waited for our plan to succeed.

Denise and Nicole were sitting watching NCIS on TV and right about the time when Agent Gibbs smacked the back of one of his employees’ heads, we heard a loud “Thump!” coming from the closet.

“Aha! Got him!” we cried. We opened the cabinet door to find the trap in the trash basket, sans mouse, with another shredded ketchup packet lying nearby. 

“The little bastard!” cried Nicole. “He got away!”

Our cat Sophie wandered down into the kitchen. “That’s it, girl,” we said. “Do your job.” Sophie walked over to the cabinet, sniffed a couple of times, and then went back upstairs to do what she does best: sleep.

We re-baited the trap. Denise and Nicole went back to watching NCIS. Right about the time Abby was explaining the results of the forensic evidence, we heard another “Thump!”

Back out to the kitchen we raced, to once again find an empty trap in the bottom of the trash basket.

“What the …?” Nicole cried. “Did we get the Einstein of mice?”

We shone the flashlight into the back of the cabinet.

“There he is!” cried Nicole.

“Is he giving you the finger?” I asked.

“Oh, look at him, he’s so cute,” said Nicole, as the mouse ducked out a small hole in the back wall. “I’m going to name him Edgar.”

“Oh, crap,” I said.  “You’ve named him! That means we can’t kill him now.  Why don’t we keep him as a pet?  I’ll buy a cage with a wheel.”

“That’s for hamsters, you nitwit,” said Denise.

Our little charade went on all evening.  We’d set the trap, go back to the TV, and ten minutes later there would be a thump resulting in an empty trap in the bottom of the trash basket.

“I’m going to remove the traps when we go to bed,” said Nicole. “If he gets stuck in there overnight, he’ll die a slow, agonizing death.  I don’t want that.”

“Me neither,” I agreed. “We’ll try again tomorrow."

On Wednesday evening, we set the trap again, while spouting the old saying about doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results being a sign of insanity. Ten minutes later, right on cue, we heard the thump.  Denise went over to the cabinet, expecting to find the same empty trap in the trash basket.

“Hey, we got him!” she yelled.  Nicole and I both came running over.

“There’s Edgar!” cried Nicole. “Wait, there are two of them!”

Sure enough, in the bottom of the trash basket, lying under the knocked-over trap, were two of the most adorable little creatures I’ve ever seen, looking up at us with two pairs of the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen.  I interpreted their expression as meaning, “Come on, we were just having a little fun. We’re copacetic, right?”

“I’m going to name the second one Harriet,” declared Nicole.

She and I quickly donned our coats, I grabbed the car keys and we carried the trash basket containing Edgar and Harriet out to the car. We found a little wooded area about a half mile from home.  Nicole carried the basket over to a pile of leaves.

“OK, little guys, you’re free to go,” she said. She had barely lowered the trash basket to the ground before Edgar and Harriet were happily scampering away.  I think there was a tear in Nicole’s eye. 

After we returned home, we set the trap again, just in case there had been more than the two mice. Frankly, I was disappointed that I didn’t hear another thump.  I miss Edgar and Harriet and wish they had successfully avoided us for one more day. I would have gladly brought them a plate of Thanksgiving leftovers.