Animal House
“You’ve probably got hundreds of mice crawling in your walls,” Big Vern said, flashing me significant builder’s bum as he bent over his Mouseblaster 2000 trap.
These are not the words you want to hear from an exterminator. But if you live in a neighborhood that was once a Christmas tree farm, like mine, and it’s the dead of winter, it could happen. And if the builder forgot a few details, like covering the gaping ventilation holes on your house, then your chances of rodent infestation have dramatically increased. Either way, there I was, stuck with holes, mice, and Big Vern’s twin moons.
Our builder wasn’t the only one to blame; I had a hand in our little rodent problem. The previous summer I’d decided that my children would benefit from some interaction with nature. I’d installed a bird feeder in the back yard and proceeded to stock up on birdseed, storing the extra-large, twenty-pound bags on the floor of our garage. Big mistake!
It turns out that mice love bird seed, it’s just about their favorite meal.
I should have known something was up when I discovered the half nibbled sunflower seeds and the chewed up plastic bags strewn across the garage floor. But I have three sons, heaven knows what goes on in that garage. Birdseed wouldn’t have been the strangest thing they’ve eaten, not by a longshot.
In addition to the gourmet dinner offering, I’d also stored a Halloween hay bale next to the open ventilation holes on the side of our house. The only thing I didn’t do was issue a formal invitation to the mouse community or post signs along the highway with directions to our home. Basically, I’d created a vermin bed and breakfast.
We first heard the scratching above our bedroom ceiling in the middle of the night. I rolled my husband over. “Something’s moving around up there,” I whispered. Hubby merely grunted, rolled back over and continued snoring. Two nights later we were both wide awake, staring at the ceiling. We had to agree that something was, indeed, living in our crawlspace.
We prayed it wasn’t one of those long-haired creepy chicks from The Ring or The Grudge. You know, the ones who like to crawl on walls and ceilings? I watch a lot of scary movies, so I’m convinced those creepers come standard in every house, like hardwood floors and indoor plumbing. But anything was better than the alternative: a rodent infestation. Living with vermin was my worst fear, next to the return of fanny packs and culottes.
My husband and I agreed to hire a humane catch and release service. We only wanted to relocate the mice, not kill them. Little did I know that a mere ten days later I’d have happily led an assault armed with any form of weaponry available, including really big cartoon hammers or anvils, had any been on hand. Instead, I invited the largest pest control company in the business into my home to terrorize me.
Big Vern, the exterminator arrived at our house looking every bit like an official Ghostbuster. He was dressed in dirt; from his filth-encrusted Dr. Martens to his “well-seasoned” uniform. And I swear he wore a still sizzling Ecto-Containment unit strapped to his belt. Big Vern had a crooked smile and a sales pitch to match. By the time he’d finished his spiel about the reproductive habits of mice, I was hyperventilating. When he estimated the mouse population in our home to be in the triple digits, I was on the phone to my husband faster than you can say Stuart Little. I begged him to put our house on the market.
Bug-eyed with desperation, I was more than willing to sign up for the ridiculously expensive monthly program Big Vern was pushing. By late afternoon a complex network of traps had been installed throughout our crawlspace and garage. Big Vern assured me the problem was well under control. All that was left to do was wait — and wait we did.
Ten days later the racket was so loud from the midnight mouse party in our ceiling that we had to sleep downstairs to escape the noise.
My husband and I huddled under blankets in the family room, feeling vulnerable and helpless. That’s when we noticed the scratching sounds coming from the walls. Vern had predicted just such a scenario, explaining that the mice would reproduce and crawl up the insulation behind the sheetrock. What a sweet love story; rodents were getting horny in my walls. Meanwhile, my husband and I were too exhausted to remember what sex was!
“They’re coming in by the hundreds,” I gasped. “They’re probably up there celebrating their good fortune in establishing our home as their base camp. They’re colonizing and organizing and electing leaders. I saw the movie Willard, I know how they operate!” I was nearly hysterical when a loud snap in the sheetrock sent me completely over the edge. It must have been their mouse king. “Oh my God, they’re taking over the house!” I squealed.
Over the racket of scrambling mice feet, I heard my grade school age son calling for me. Gathering what little sanity I had left, I headed to his bedroom. He was sitting bolt upright in bed, flashlight blazing, eyes wide.
“Mommy, I hear a noise in the ceiling. What is it?” he asked.
I pasted on a smile, and doing my best Mary Poppins imitation, explained that a little country mouse had come to live with us. “Isn’t it wonderful? We have pets in our walls,” I said cheerfully.
The next morning the pest control company sent a different technician to check our traps. Eddy was new to the pest game and brimming with enthusiasm for the job. He informed me that he’d be checking and changing the traps daily. I prayed Eddy was up to the task. Sadly, he lasted only two days before falling apart over a cup of decaf in my kitchen.
Eddy admitted that he was unable to control the pest population in our home. With a tear in his eye, he explained that his company, the largest name in pest control, didn’t really want to solve our problem, they just wanted us on a monthly extermination program, indefinitely. It was a scam they worked with all of their clients. But Eddy told me he was a Christian and couldn’t continue deceiving me. Jesus wouldn’t want him to lie.
I had to agree with Jesus on this one.
Shortly after canceling our contract with the pest control company, a friend offered us the name of his exterminator. He claimed his guy could completely de-mouse a house within two weeks. Having nothing to lose, I made the call and waited for Pete the Pest Man to arrive.
I’m not sure what I expected. Maybe Carl Spackler from Caddyshack in a filthy truck with a giant polymer bug mounted on top, but Pete was anything but! His truck was clean and tasteful and so was Pete. He was well-spoken with a pearly white smile that inspired not only complete confidence but good oral hygiene, as well.
Pete didn’t want to set up elaborate traps or extensive contracts, he just wanted to solve our problem. And he did, using a good old-fashioned mousetrap and some peanut butter.
If you ever hear scratching in your walls at night do yourself a favor; avoid the big franchises who only want to drain your bank account, and find your own Pest Man Pete. Unless you’ve got that creepy horror flick chick in your attic. In that case, consult Angie’s List for your nearest exorcist. I hear Carl Spackler’s looking for work, you could always give him a call.
