'Mice! The hoors were dug in behind the cooker...'

Paul Fitzpatrick

The first attack caught us all by surprise. I got up for a drink in the middle of the night last week and could hear them in the wall cavity.

Mice! A quick reconnaissance mission confirmed the hoors were dug in behind the cooker. Where had my sentry been? I looked at the cat, snoozing happily in her basket under the radiator in the hall.

“Get off your hole, Punk,” I said to her, hurrying to the kitchen, brush in my hand and rodenticide on my mind. “It’s time.”

She didn’t follow me. I glanced back to the hall nervously.

“You’re here to empty my litter tray and feed me treats, pal,” Punk’s yawn seemed to say. Damn her cowardice.

So, I was on my own. I sat at the table to take stock of the situation. This called for a clear head. I would sleep on it.

Next morning, I pulled apart the drawers under the hob. There were droppings everywhere. I retreated to the car, took a spin to the shop and returned laden with what a military manual would describe as an arsenal of China-made bolt action slam traps.

This battle would be fought on my terms. 

I loaded them with the caramel bit of a Fredo. It was 0930 hours. “Now,” I said to Punk, “we wait.” Punk looked back blankly and yawned again. Ten-four, boss, she seemed to be saying. Work away.

Crack! By 1300 hours, we had our first confirmed kill. 

Punk, in fairness to her, had been stationed close to the front line, scanning the skirting board and patrolling the area under the sink. I had her briefed to follow a squash-on-sight policy should an insurgent show his whiskers.

I slowly removed the corpse and set about re-baiting the traps but then disaster struck. The remainder of the Fredo had been compromised. I immediately sent an urgent dispatch to my better half.

“Bring more Fredoes,” I said, the line crackling. “Repeat, I ate the rest of the Fredo. Over.”

The reply came swiftly. It’s not suitable for printing. The gist? Women do not like mice. Or men who eat the chocolate that’s supposed to be used to catch them. This war’s a dirty business, I thought, as I solemnly disposed of the remains.

By morning, there was more bloodshed. One foolhardy, gung ho chap came over the top round dawn. Death via Dairy Milk-loaded trap (I found one in the bottom of the fridge) came instantly. 

The dead intruder couldn’t have been more than three weeks old. “Poor bastard,” I muttered as I scanned the scene. 

 “You’re right,” Punk’s look said, as she rolled over lazily in her basket and closed her eyes.

Two more mice went to the big grainstore in the sky by mid-week. And then, all of a sudden, there was a cessation.

Was the hostility over? I hoped against hope that it was, that no more innocent rodents would need to die by my hand and Punk’s paw in the name of a hygienic kitchen.

The lull lasted two full days. No fresh engagement to report. I took the decision to downgrade the threat level and even considered giving Punk the night off. She’d earned it.

All was well in the world, or so I thought. And then it happened. I opened the press under the sink late at night, previously a sort of no-mouse's land, free of traps and also, I thought, our little friends.

And there, at the back, beside the pipes going into the washing machine, was a carpet of their shit. So that’s what they had been doing. Who had I been kidding? All this time, during the calm, I thought they had and retreated when secretly they had been mobilising for an attack on a fresh flank... 

For a second, I almost admired their cunning; and then my mind hardened again. While I had been focusing attention on the drawers under the cooker, they were setting up camp with impunity, crawling around my shoe polish, nibbling the dishwasher tablets, rubbing against the ancient tin of Pledge. My tin of Pledge!

It was almost midnight. Enraged, I hopped in the car and drove to Whitegate, to the only shop open at that hour. “Three mouse traps,” I said with conviction, “and two Fredoes.”

The civilian behind the counter recognised my thousand-yard stare.

“Mice?” he asked, with a knowing raise of the eyebrow.

“Mice,” I confirmed gruffly, with the battle-hardened veteran’s grimace.

The time had come to take the fight to these bastards on all fronts. I quick-marched into the hall when I landed home. Punk knew by my gait that this was now serious, though she was still in her basket and showed it only by opening one eye momentarily and snuggling back into her blanket.

“At ease, soldier,” I commanded abruptly. She showed no reaction. Good, I thought. She’s become immune to the horrors of the situation.

Carefully, I primed the traps with fresh Fredo and placed them in position. By now there were six littered around the kitchen – two on top of the presses, one in each of the three drawers under the cooker and one in the press under the sink. 

I didn’t sleep much that night. How could I? Then, in the wee hours, I heard the unmistakable crack of one detonating. In boxer shorts and runners – I don’t know why but I didn’t feel comfortable advancing in bare feet - I approached the combat zone and there it was. The Big One - plump, grey and mouth actually touching the chocolate. 

If this was a computer game, she would be the queen that you kill on the last level, I thought. With relief, I sat down at the table, Mamma mouse on the floor. 

It was over, at last. The horror that drives men from their beds in just their jocks and Reeboks, the suffering, the wasted confectionery. All over.

“We did it, Punk!” I yelled, banging the counter with my fist. “We did it.”

The cat sat upright with a jolt, stared vacantly for a second, rolled over and went back to sleep.