Stuff Digital Edition

Free-loaders in my house

Virginia Fallon virginia.fallon@stuff.co.nz

It is NOT the same mouse. Having spent the past little while convincing myself that the rodent rampaging about the house is a singular, it is now clear it’s a plural; not a mouse but mice, proven by the fact they’ve been seen together.

There they were on Monday, bold as you like, lounging about on the bench beside the jug. Later, I spotted the two tiny free-loaders in the lounge, looking for all the world like they own the place.

‘‘It is NOT the same mouse,’’ I said to the person who’s been telling me it’s not the same mouse. ‘‘I’ve been telling you that,’’ he said.

Now that we know it’s not the same mouse things are getting serious around these parts. Yes, I’m still leaving the ranch slider open in the hope they’ll leave, but my efforts haven’t ended there.

Heading to the hardware shop, I sidle up to a staff member to ask whether he has any recommendations for getting rid of mice; something that does not involve poison or traps.

This man is both extremely unhelpful and very standoffish but nonetheless I follow him about the place, filling him in on the whole sorry saga. During this time he also learns about my thoughts on mice; some interesting facts about them and, in a completely unrelated issue, how I’m planning to tackle the problem of a leaky pipe.

Ultimately it transpires he isn’t a staff member at all; just a guy in an orange T-shirt. Apologising, I scurry away.

‘‘Poison or traps,’’ a helpful and actual staff member says a few minutes later. I scurry away.

Returning home, I google ‘‘how to get rid of mice in the house’’, then, following the advice to remove all food sources, google ‘‘what do mice eat in your house’’, which turns out to be everything. Impossible.

Back-buttoning it to the first search, the second suggestion is to seal the house’s entry points, so I close the ranch slider, which means that, for the first time in days, the cat appears, wanting to be let in. Immediately after she is, she wants to be let out.

‘‘What are you doing about the mice?’’ I ask, slamming the door behind her. Stalking past me when I immediately open it again, she makes clear it’s nothing.

‘‘What are you doing about the mice?’’ asks the other person who lives here, though he’s not addressing the cat. ‘‘Originally called Henriettas,’’ I say.

According to my research, mice first appeared in New Zealand in 1824, on a ship from Australia called Elizabeth Henrietta. Because folks had never seen them before they called the mice after the ship they came from. Also, the oldest living mouse in human care is currently one called Pat, who is nearly 10 years old.

‘‘You’re not going to do anything, are you?’’ asks the other person, letting the cat out.

‘‘Nor is she,’’ I say, getting up to let her in again; this time leaving the door open.

The problem with getting rid of mice is A: they’re just so damn cute and B: I’m not the slightest bit frightened by them. A fly will have me reaching for the spray; a stick insect sees me fleeing the property, while any appearance by a Gisborne cockroach has me contemplating burning the whole place down. But mice? I’m just not bovvered.

Unfortunately, according to almost everyone else, I should be; just as, according to Google, with two mice typically there should have been more.

‘‘It’s time I got some professional help,’’ I say to the other person who lives here.

‘‘And then do something about the mice,’’ says he.

Opinion

en-nz

2023-06-01T07:00:00.0000000Z

2023-06-01T07:00:00.0000000Z

https://fairfaxmedia.pressreader.com/article/281908777526763

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