Okay, actually, they’re not “meeses.”
Part of the reason I’ve been a bit, umm, quieter, of late is that rodents have invaded my downstairs sanctuary. It’s the garage level of our house, and analagous to a basement “back east” as they say. Shelving and boxes. Old books. My brewery. The spare fridge (and cold beer). In the back is my little corner cockpit office with my computer, and the TV that gets the sports stations, and the old couch hide-a-bed that has followed me from SF apartment, to Alameda apartment, to first house with Mrs. Ombud, to this house, as well.
And when we had our dear little old lady cat, Millicent, bless her tortiseshell heart, this house was rodent-free, too, as Mill-pill was quite the mouser in her day.
Late last year, when the first cardboard- and wall-chewing evidence appeared, I set a trap. The first time, the peanut butter-smeared cracker was taken, the trap was unsprung. But that was okay. It meant the little culprit would return and say hello to my little friend. The next time I smeared peanut butter right on the trigger, and the little fucker took it. Snap! He flipped over on his back, his little paws up in the air when we found him.
I thought that was the end of it. I was wrong. Here is what I found several weeks later, when I went downstairs and looked at the old couch hide-a-bed:
And yes, I freaked.
Not screaming and hollering freaked. Just OMG put-it-in-high-gear freaked. The new-tenant evidence was suddenly very pervasive throughout the garage, like maybe the whole gang was looking for new turf, and I took that hole as evidence that maybe somebody wanted to become a momma, and this ain’t no rodent maternity ward.
I called the exterminators. First, it was bait stations, with an anti-coagulant poison that makes them crave water and fresh air, so they leave the building without dying in the walls.
So far, it hasn’t worked. Now the exterminators have added their spring traps.
So far, they haven’t eliminated the “evidence” either. The calling cards are still left for us. It’s highly aggravating, and one of the upshots is that, although I come down here regularly to check the evidence and see if the traps have caught any of the little rat bastards, I just, somehow, don’t end up hanging out down here as much as I used to.
It’s as if my garage office has cooties, and I’m waiting for the exterminator to rid us of the evidence.
I have my DVR down here. I still watch some of the news programs I record, check e-mail, etc. but somehow, the blogging well has been dry.
But I think that’s about to change. More to come.