of mice and men: a horror story

Living in what might euphemistically be described as a renovator’s delight, the first cold wet snap of the year spells R – A – T.

On account of the fact we have a few shrubs out front, we’ll call it a bush rat.

Privately, I call him Ben because there are just the two of us locked in this battle, the man of the house being in complete denial. “It’s a mouse”, insists he.

Last year, about this time, the dog bailed Ben up in the Tupperware cupboard.

Managing to wrestle him into a plastic water jug and slam on the lid, I marched upstairs to wave the furiously scrambling beast under the partner’s nose. You call that a mouse?

Admitting nothing, he just calmly inquired: “Now what are you going to do with it?”

Good question! “Ben, most people would turn you away …” I, on the other hand, stomped three kilometres down the road and released him in a nice council reserve.

Now, he’s baaack!

Having tried unsuccessfully to purchase snake poo and discovered “humane traps” are actually for ensnaring gullible people who believe any rodent with half a brain would be caught dead entering a repurposed dolls’ house through a “rat flap”, it was time for aromatherapy.

Mixing 100ml of peppermint oil with equal parts of water, I squirted window frames, gaps in floorboards, across benchtops, under doors, behind bookshelves till the place smelled like a Tic Tac factory.

Then I waited. It wasn’t long before the first casualty staggered downstairs, coughing and blinking.

“What are you doing? My eyes are stinging, I can’t breathe,” gasps he.

WARNING: This all-natural product may repel husbands.


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