Amynah and I have a houseguest. This, in itself, is not unusual, as we’ve had houseguests every two months on average, since our arrival. On the other hand, most of our houseguests have been invited. And bipedal.
Our current guest is smaller, by a considerable margin, than any of our previous guests. We are assuming it is a mouse, though as we’ve yet to lay eyes on the critter we can’t say for certain. Given that we live on the fifth floor, it may be some native-to-France mouse-monkey hybrid that scaled the outside wall of our building and burrowed through the walls in order to raid my only-from-Canada stores of peanut butter.
The mouse has been making its presence felt for a while now, but, as with all unpleasant household chores , we ignored it for as long as possible, electing to pretend that the scrabbling we heard behind our bedroom wall was merely the sounds of the rodent on his way to visiting other apartments, not attempting to gain entry to ours.
Our delusion was spoiled, this weekend, when we returned from a movie to discover that the mouse had gained entry to our sanctuary, and shat on our bed. It was hard not to feel that there was some malice behind this.
In any case, despite being known in rodent circles as The White-Coated She Goddess of Destruction, Amynah was remarkably shaken by our fecal friend’s visit and so, the next day, we ventured forth to arm ourselves against his trespasses.
Sadly, while I’d have been happy to buy some variety of humane trap, our local hyper-marché only sold poison.* Desperate, we bought it, and now our apartment is replete with a proliferation of paper plates bearing pink poison.
It’s now been two days, none of the “rat cereal” (as our store receipt called it) has been touched, and it still sounds like there’s a pint-sized turnpike behind our walls. The Goddess of Destruction is sleeping in the living room, and I find myself sitting on my bed in the dark, clutching a frying pan, staring at the baseboards.
There's been no sign of him near our food, with is a relief, though disquieting. What is it living on? Is it some kind of zombie mouse, gnawing through insulation and plaster in order to unleash its wrath on his human overlords?
* The attendant refused to tell us where in France we might purchase a regular trap, or any other kind, on the grounds that he’d be giving business to the competition. If you aren’t selling the product, how are they competition?