My Blog__ Pledge (not) To Kill
Because it is beginning to get cold again, I lay in waiting for my old dear friends to return. They come when it's cold, only when the air gets crisper and the humidity seeps through your skin into your bones. They love the warmth that radiates out from underneath the refrigerator.
Our mice are fiercely obedient. When they run out from one of the many hidden corners in my apartment, I simply have to yell, "WHAT THE FUCK YOU MOUSE--I CAN SEE YOU SO FUCKING GET BACK UNDER THE FRIDGE." And they always do.
They're not easy. It took a long time until they were comfortable enough with our relationship to run around in plain sight. I only noticed their presence by way of a strange scratching sound that I would hear when I was upstairs and no one was home downstairs. I realized that this sound was actually the mice making tiny little rips in the paper towel that sits underneath our giant vat of olive oil. It leaks oil, and the paper towel soaks it up. Then the mice eat the paper towel. It's the circle of olive oil.
When I realized that the sound was, in fact, a living and moving creature, I was both relieved and horrified. Relieved that I hadn't lost my mind and that my paranoia was well-warranted. I always thought some sort of paranormal activity was going on downstairs and that the scratching had something to do with a spiritual medium. But it was just mice.
My mother convinced me that the health risks of having mice up on the countertop were paramount, and that we had to get rid of them. I just want to set one thing straight here--I don't kill things. I hate to kill things. The last thing I killed was a waterbug that crawled onto my leg in the middle of the night when I was naked going to the bathroom. And that bug scared the shit out of me so he had it coming.
I couldn't really stand the thought of mouse blood on my own hands, so I cowardly had my friend Amo come over and he set two traps. We baited them with peanut butter and they went untouched for a week. We stepped it up one night and sprinkled grated romano all around the traps. I wrapped that block of cheese up, put it in the fridge, and went up the stairs. About 20 minutes later--SNAP. We killed one. We killed one and it was his elevated palate that did him in. I still feel guilty to this day for killing that mouse. I love romano too, after all. So today when I bought my groceries and saw mouse traps sitting in a bin at the front of the grocery store, I walked in the other direction, towards the fine cheeses. And I pledge, this winter of 2011, I will not kill any mice.