My car is infested with field mice. Stinking, filthy, disease-riddled rodents.
How do I know?
BECAUSE THERE ARE FREAKIN’ MOUSE TURDS ALL OVER THE FREAKIN’ CAR.
On the floormats. On the driver’s seat. On the passenger’s seat. In MP’s CAR SEAT. In the freakin’ cup holders for freak’s sake.
The same thing happened two years ago. As soon as the temperature began to head south, the mice began taking up residence in the car. Building condos behind the glovebox. I spent 100 bucks having it detailed after someone mentioned that, sure, I could easily vacuum the turds, but what I WASN’T seeing was all the URINE.
Nevermind that that person was a detailer. Yes, the very one I paid 100 bucks. Whatever. The point is … I’m sure it was true.
It was around that time, in a stunning demonstration of perfect timing, a stray cat arrived on my doorstep. I fed her each day and she stuck around, finding a hole in the foundation’s skirting and making herself at home under the house. The car mice ceased to be a problem.
Until Grammy captured her a few months ago and took her to the No-Kill Shelter. That’s a story for another post. Which leaves me without my convenient four-legged critter killer policing the grounds.
It also leaves me with a problem bigger than just the urine-soaked car. Now the dirty bastards are in the HOUSE.
When I opened the top drawer in the bathroom this past weekend, it took me a minute to process what I was seeing, but the four or five tampons that had spontaneously exploded into a cloud of white cotton overnight were peppered with a familiar calling card. Opening the drawer below, I found a full box of Q-Tips that had been ransacked and defiled. Little Q-Tip Baton Wielding Bastards.
They even ate the damn Neosporin tube. NEOSPORIN. Which I dug out of the trash just for you, dear Doogs.
**On a related note, what brainiac decided to change the Tampax wrappers from a nice discreet white — which blends seamlessly with tissue and toilet paper — to NEON GREEN, which screams from the trash can, “Pick me up! I’m a fun toy!” to toddlers and preschoolers? I digress.**
Upon further inspection, I began seeing the signs everywhere. And by signs I mean TURDS. In the closet. On the floor by my bed. In a pile of towels sitting in a basket on the kitchen COUNTER. So, my mice can scale walls. Jealous much?
I’ve been leaving traps in the car every night for a week or two, with a fair amount of success, but the troops keep marching in. Last night I left a trap in the Q-Tip drawer and had an unfortunate mess to clean up before work. All this pee and poo and bloody gore has me totally freaked about Hanta Virus.
And now MP’s told her class she has rats in her car. And her house. I’ve tried to explain the difference between a RAT and a MOUSE, with little success. Like when I tell Bobo (my dad, for the newcomers) there’s actually a difference between saying he lives in a trailer, and saying he lives in an RV. He insists on “trailer.” (Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I rent a double-wide, myself. Which I like to call a “Manufactured Home.” Marketing, Baby.)
Which means if you’re listening to MP, we live in our car. Or at the Dump, depending on the outcome of the Telephone Game. And if you’re a woman in a bar, the grocery store, the gas station, listening to Bobo try and pick you up …
Yeah, clearly, Bobo’s never getting laid again.