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Faux Outrage

Literally the most important blog in the universe since 2010.

There was a mouse in my apartment.

He was about the size of a large cashew and he was smarter than me.

He liked oyster crackers more than cheese and tortilla chips more than anything.

He lived under my sink.

I called him “Frouse”.

Mice are rare breed of animal in that they are both adorable and generally reviled by humans.

But I didn’t hate Frouse at first.

I respected his cunning, laughed sometimes when he squeaked with his whiskered little mousy mouth, and once caught myself feeling relief that he had a safe place to stay during a severe thunderstorm.  However, over time I realized that I when I heard him scurrying endlessly from the garbage can to the paper towels and back, one simple question began to cross my mind with increasing frequency and volume:

Why won’t you die a slow and agonizing death?

The Walt Disney Company has done more for mice public relations than any single entity (although Warner Brothers, Universal Studios, and Pixar have also animated on the side of rodent rights), even going so far as developing a special club of what look to be human-mouse hybrids.  But what Walt and the others failed to mention in their popular productions about our mammalian frienemies is that they (a) stink and (b) poop.

A lot.

The difficulty in dealing with Frouse was three-fold:

– First, it was difficult to blame him since he was just trying to, you know, live.
– Second, and most surprising, he was not a complete ignoramus.
– Third, I was not up for the challenge at first.

Lucky for me, my landlord provided our building with what looked to be an endless supply of glue traps.  I was heartened that we were using these as opposed to the cartoon-style snap-down-on-mouse-face traps because it seemed to me that those would be, as they say, “completely disgusting.”  They should really consider building a better mousetrap.

I took five.

Because I initially assumed that mice were about as smart as a box of thumbtacks, I did not put much effort into the placement of the traps.  I scattered them around sites that looked mouse-friendly and waited for them to do the trick, like they were air fresheners or magicians on a tight schedule.  But Frouse turned out to be a quality opponent.  He would weave through traps to the trappings of success in the garbage can.  He would navigate so gracefully that I considered changing his name to Mouseco de Gama.

Or Fur-dinand Magellan.

Whiskerphor Columbus!

But like Columbus, who mistook the Americas for Asia, Frouse eventually mistook a recently-moved glue trap for a safe landing spot.  He was stuck.  He whined and pleaded, struggled with all of his mousy might.  He couldn’t remove himself.  Even I couldn’t set him free if I tried.

I didn’t try.

Frouse died.

According to The Humane Society:

“Glue traps are responsible for more suffering than virtually any other wildlife control product on the market. Most animals caught in glue traps suffer slow and agonizing deaths.”

So, I guess I got my wish.

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