*somthing*-cide

I don't know whether to call it genocide or muricide but I do know that murder was committed in the garage.

Muricide is the killing of a mouse, specifically by a rat. Since my husband was the killer, and he's generally not a rat, that's not really a the correct use of the word.

Genocide is the killing of an entire ethnicity or cultural group. And since there are still mice alive in the world that doesn't quite fit either.

But I can say with certainty that the mousey body count at our home on Hill street is 13.

In order to tell this story I have to admit that we have a messy garage. But since I've already admitted many other, more personal, things to you I may as well admit to the messiness of our garage. We hasn't been able to park our vehicle in there since June. Yeah.

Every year when the weather changes we have a mouse. The first year I told the story of the mouse here.

Last year we trapped a mama mouse under the kitchen sink and later realized there were baby mice living in the roof above the light fixture. They squeaked horribly for a few days, then died and the bathroom smelled of death for several weeks whenever we went in there and turned the light on. It broke my heart.

This year we suspected we had a mouse, but it wasn't until we saw the birdseed spilling out of its plastic bag in the garage that we were certain. Honestly, with a huge supply of birdseed right there and some foam pads for seat cushions, if I were a mouse I'd think it was a good place to live, too!

Isaiah put traps out last week but they've yielded nothing. Yesterday afternoon we went to WalMart for supplies for our student Christmas party and he announced he was getting some more mousetraps.

We left with cookies, punch, chips, dips and two types of mousetraps.

Then, randomly, on the way home my husband said, "I need a hatchet. Every man should have a hatchet."

"Is that like every woman should have a little black dress?" I asked him.

"Yes," he said. "Every man should have a hatchet." (pause for dramatic effect) "And a shotgun!"

I have no explanation for this conversation.

As I was preparing for the party Isaiah took the girls to the garage and set up his traps.

Once there he discovered a dead mouse in his roller hockey skate (perhaps overcome by the smell? We'll never know!). He found the tunnel in the foam cushion leading to a cozy mouse house. He told me the house was ingenious but he couldn't wait until they were dead.

The roller hockey mouse was a little... aged.

This morning when I took Mia to school I noted his success as there was a dead mouse in the trap at the side of the garage.

Mouse count: 2.

When I returned from taking Mia to school there was a mouse in the trap by the garage door.

Mouse count: 3.

I walked into the kitchen and Maggie attacked me with excited howls. I set my things down and turned around to see her shaking a Ziploc baggie in my face.

It was hard to see what was in there because she was grabbing and shaking the baggie, talking a mile a minute, while Isaiah was talking at the same time.

I finally figured it out. The baggie was full of baby mice. Ten baby mice, to be exact!

"Are they alive?!" I asked Isaiah – after all I hadn't been gone that long dropping Mia off at school.

"They're… Frozen," he answered with a glance toward Maggie.

"They's alls sleeping, Mama!" Maggie announced proudly, fondly caressing the pinkies.

I trotted out to the garage and heard the whole tale of how Isaiah came out with Maggie to check the traps. They startled two mice out of the plastic-wrapped foam cushion. One escaped, Isaiah set a trap in front of the exit, and the other mouse dodged past it and ran.

Curious as to why the foam he moved last night was re-stuffed with foam padding, he shook the cushion and out dropped 10 little mouse babies!

My heart began to break as I imagined that poor mama mouse giving birth to her precious babies and then seeing a giant shake them out onto the cold, hard concrete floor and being powerless to save them.

Isaiah is not bothered by anthropomorphic tendencies.

He used the pinkies as a biology lesson for Maggie, showing her about the babies and examining the organs that were visible through the transparent skin. Then he gathered them up into a Ziploc to show Mia after school and stored them in our freezer.

Isaiah realized I was looking at those baby mice with compassion as he told the story.

"It's a mouse! It's not a human!" he scolded me. He stopped as a new thought hit him. "If only we had a snake! We'd have a heydey with these pinkies if we had a snake!"

My stomach turned. I took pictures because I knew I'd have to blog about the genocide/muricide. Then I took the Ziploc baggie and put it back in the freezer. Isaiah reset the traps. Maggie crowed triumphantly about the whole affair.

Mouse count: 13.

At least two to go.

And I have "sleeping" pinkies on top of a tub of vanilla ice cream in case anyone wants to try a non-traditional topping when you come over.