Every house I’ve ever lived in has had a resident mouse or two, at least until we were able to, um, evict them. This house is no different. But in our current residence, the mice have taken up, three years running, in the attic, rather than in the basement or the kitchen. So we have the unpleasant experience of awaking in the night to hear them skittering and skritching above our heads.
This year, when I heard the first tell-tale scampers at bedtime, I told my husband the mice were back. This announcement was met with significant skepticism, which I felt was unwarranted, since I definitely know what they sound like, and I definitely do not want them in my attic.
In spite of his doubts, he baited some traps– the good kind– with peanut butter and a chocolate chip and popped open the attic door and humored me.
We went to sleep that night. All was quiet.
Around 2:30 in the morning I couldn’t sleep. Restless, I kicked the covers off and tried to do some mental tricks to relax myself. And then I heard the unmistakable scratch and tiny scrape of mouse feet scrambling in my attic. I cursed their tiny rodent selves, knowing I would be unable to get back to sleep while they ran around up there.
Skritch skritch skritch skritch skritch… across the attic.
Skritch skritch skritch skritch skritch all the way back.
Skritch skritch skritch skritch skritch… snap! And then silence.
I heard Joe stir next to me. He had heard it too.
I decided that was a good enough “I told you so”.
Sweet dreams, indeed.