Gnash, gnash, and more rodent tales

If throwing fits would make changes, I’d throw one, and then I’d be healthy and it would be rainy and cool again.

I’ve had to cut back to my former exercise schedule—every other day—because of the extremely unhappy post-bumble tendons holding my kneecap to my quadriceps. Or vice versa. Since the recumbent bicycle puts more stress on the tendons than walking, I’ve just been doing a walk in the park, staying on the flatter ground, every other day or two, depending on what the knee will tolerate. Ice and heat, ice and heat, I swear that’s all I do anymore.

This means I’m walking over the same area twice so’s I don’t get into steeper ground. Which is, frankly, annoying. Even the dog gives me geez-are-we-gonna-do-this-again looks.

As if that weren’t enough, it’s been in the high 70s or higher the last week or so, so the humidity’s been quite high (stop laughing, Northwood, I know it’s not as bad as it is there). Therefore, my lungs function as if they were breathing in pea soup. Put that and the knees together, and it means I’m going about the same distance or less half as often and breathing six times as hard.

This is so unfair.

Plus, after Ye Former Rodent expired behind my walls, yet another little beast showed up, leaving tracks (read: mouse crap) all over my kitchen counter. Not even a day after I finished cleaning out the kitchen from the last one.

So I got mad. I went to the store. I bought mouse traps. I baited two of them and left them on the counter. Mice are said to love peanut butter.

After I went to bed, I heard the trap pop. Yay! I thought. Got ‘im! I heard a bit of rattling after that, but put it down to the well-known phenom of death twitches. Yeah, I know, gives me the willies, too.

Next morning, I got up, staggered out to the kitchen and prepared to dump the mouse-cum-trap into the trash.

But it wasn’t on the counter. What the heck? I thought. I looked around. No mouse. I turned around and looked on the floor.

There it was. Clear across the kitchen floor. I went over to look at it, and the mouse twitched.

I shrieked, the ewwwwwwww kind of shriek.

The trap had gotten the poor little thing by the nose, and the mouse had struggled itself and the trap off the counter and across the floor. He’d been in that awful pain for hours and hours. And no one was around to dispatch him but. . . me.

Gulp. C’mon, you guys know me; I rarely even kill spiders. This was worse than awful.

I picked the poor, feebly struggling thing—by the trap—and dropped it into a plastic bag. Then I picked up a hammer and smacked where its head ought to have been. It quit twitching. But it left me twitching. Ewwwwwww.

Posted by wordsmith

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Exactly! I killed a gray squirrel a couple of summers ago, but with the pellet gun, not my fingers. Even having my fingers at the far end of the hammer gave me the tooth-grinds and heebies. :shudders: Unfortunately, nobody’s around to do those things if I squidge out!

ARG! I don’t know if I could have even done that much. I tend to be very girlie when it comes to with my own two hands killing. Give me a gun or something and I’d be fine, but having to hold something down and then hammer away its life gives me the squirms and leaves me unhappy for a while.

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