So, today, we rise from bed. (No, it’s not Good Friday; it’s Saturday.)
Minutes later, Hubby says, “I think we have a problem.”
“What?” But did I need to ask?
Nope, I didn’t.
“There’s a missing trap.”
Hubby had three traps set in the kitchen–only at nights when I’m in bed ’cause I don’t like to see them. Apparently, he got up in the middle of the night.
“We did have three, right?” he asks.
I groan. “Yes, there were three.” I sigh. I want to go back to bed. This is totally ridiculous. And out of control.
Coincidentally, mice scurried through my head while sleeping. No, not a dream. Some sort of wafting thought that invaded my tranquility when it hit me that carrot pieces and nuts would surely be behind the refrigerator and under the dishwasher, and perhaps that’s where they were hiding.
So, after our showers, etc., Hubby finds the trusty broom handle and flashlight, lies on the kitchen floor, and tries to see/sweep out the trap (with or without the dead/alive mouse). He soon gives up on the broom and devices a coat hanger contraption. Low and behold: a live mouse on the stickie trap. OUT IT GOES, thanks to Hubby…BACK IN THE FIELD, SOMEWHERE. (I didn’t watch except to supervise.)
I’m thinking now the point of entry (a dreaded thought that went through my head during the night) is behind the dishwasher again. A couple of years ago, my sweet dearly departed ever-missed son Matt covered the surface behind the dishwasher with heavy plastic and duct tape (duct tape works wonders, does it not?). Problem solved, we all thought.
That problem may have been solved. The dratted critters could have discovered another entry point, but there is no way to know for certain until we pull out the dishwasher. At the time Matt “solved the problem,” we had just installed a granite countertop and had the devil of a time re-positioning the dishwasher. I dread moving it again. It’s not a job for Hubby and Wifey, for Wifey does not enjoy these types of events. So, I suggested that tomorrow, AFTER dinner (and numerous drinks) we utilize the two men guests who will have enjoyed a scrumptious dinner (thanks to Wifey). Surely three able-bodied men can pull out and push back a dishwasher!
Nope, Hubby says we can’t do that. Not on Easter Sunday. Not after we’ve invited them to dinner.
But they’re family! Family helps family, right? And if it doesn’t get done tomorrow, when will it get done? Never, that’s when!
So, I’m here, languishing with my vino. Wondering…pondering… Is there a safe haven anywhere in the world?