A eulogy for the mouse murdered in Apt #3B

By MEAGAN PEOPLES | March 1, 2018

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I was the one who actually made the poison order. I went online, researched my options, was disgusted by the cost and then promptly mentioned my little problem to my aunt who then graciously offered to buy it for me. And though I didn’t pay for anything, it was my name on the box that everything arrived in. However, in the end, I was the one having the hardest time accepting that we may have killed our little rodent resident. 

Some context: Over break, all three of the gorgeous ladies living in apartment 3B spotted the mouse that was living in their stove. Not all three of us screamed at this sight, but I definitely did. 

They all awoke to my 3 a.m.  shriek that resounded through our halls. The thought that there was vermin actually residing in our ancient building was not enough for them to wage war on this new life form, but the thought that our baked goods could all be contaminated convinced them.

Truthfully, we’d never considered that this might happen. We were careless with our crumbs. We believed in the power of our neighbors’ cats to keep the vermin at bay. And the reward for our folly was the sight of those beady eyes unabashedly locking our gazes.

We found that the part of our stove which connected to the gas line fit quite snugly into the wall via a rather large, gaping hole. It was unlikely that our bulk purchase of steel wool would be able to plug the hole so I made the decision to go forth and procure poison. 

Never in my life had I considered the fact that adulthood might include learning how to poison something. Yet there I was, standing in my pajamas and ripping open an Amazon box filled with rodenticide. 

And so, a struggle with a box cutter and half a page of instructions later, we had successfully set up our little mouse trap. 

It was a simple thing of hard plastic stuffed to the brim with anticoagulants, and it was a shock when the thing actually worked. 

We’ve all heard horror stories of the inability of poison or traps to keep mice at bay. You might catch one or two, but that just means there are five more waiting in the walls to take their place. I figured that by the time the mouse even got around to noticing the poison, it would probably have impregnated three other lady mice. Soon, generations of its spawn would be spilling forth from all of our appliances and colonizing our countertops. 

But that’s not what happened. Instead, days went by without another sighting. And soon it had been weeks. Had the mouse noticed our schemes? Had he gotten better at anticipating our movements? 

Perhaps, but not once in the ensuing weeks did we find a single dropping. There were no holes ripped in bags, no little bits of half-eaten paper scattered across the floor. We had to conclude that we had defeated our mouse.

And in the wave of that victorious moment came the sad realization that never again would I have the privilege of looking into his beady little eyes or screaming at the sight of him perched atop our stove.

We may have won our battle, but we lost our foe. I write these last words in his memory, as an ode to the lost life of Dr. Jameson Mouse:

You were a worthy nemesis and a brave soldier. While you may not have won your freedom, you won the hearts and minds of the three college students trying to make adult decisions in apartment 3B.

Goodbye, Dr. Mouse. You will be sorely missed. (And sorry about poisoning you.)

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