The Five Stages of Grief
(When You Have a Mouse Infestation)

My house is the epicenter of the entire North American rodent infestation. Last winter, I killed 121 mice. This winter…more. Many, many more. You’ve heard of the five stages of grief? Well, they apply to mouse infestations, too. Here’s how it goes:

1. DENIAL. I don’t think I was willing to accept the extent of the problem when I moved here. Yes, my house is over 200 years old. Yes, I’d found an actual mouse hole and some poop in the kitchen. No problem, right? I bought one mouse trap. One. I figured I’d catch Mickey and then get back to my normal life. I caught a mouse the first night. “Cool,” I thought. “Problem solved.” Silly me.

2. ANGER. Mice eat a lot, and they cannot be toilet trained. I got annoyed. Really annoyed. I’d hear a mouse scrambling through the walls, and I’d react. With a crazed look on my face, I’d leap off the couch and smack the wall as loudly as possible. Sometimes, this would startle the mouse into silence. Sometimes, I’d hear the furry little jerk change direction and head down into the basement. Either way, he’d shut up long enough for me to watch my show. I had won. Except, of course, I hadn’t. Which lead to…

3. BARGAINING. I became desperate. I paid a contractor to search for their entry holes. I googled mouse-killing techniques. I bought bigger traps, fancier traps and poison. I set up little mouse-killing zones on every level of the house. I even set out bowls of water to entice them into my death traps. They’d enjoy a refreshing drink, crap on the floor and then disappear into the walls. Every night, they’d shove one or two of their less popular colleagues into my traps to make me think I was getting somewhere, but every morning, a new colony would move in. Then I found one of my cats playing with a mouse. I praised him and gave him a hunk of cheese. If only I could train my pets to kill mice, I could make this end. No luck.

Here’s my ferocious cat, stalking a mouse. Yes, he’s fallen asleep staring at a wall.

And here’s my ferocious dog, stalking a mouse. Yes, he’s fallen asleep in my office chair.

As the death toll rose, yet the poop sightings continued, I sunk into…

4. DEPRESSION. One day, a fat, pregnant mouse waddled past me in the basement. It stopped about three feet from where I was standing and just sat there, staring off into space. When I tried to grab it, it disappeared into one of the many cracks in the rubble stone foundation. Turns out even fat, pregnant mice can waddle faster than I can lunge. I could have smacked the wall, I could have summoned my mouse-killing pets, I could have sealed the crack. I didn’t. There was no point—I had lost the battle. Finally, I transitioned into…

5. ACCEPTANCE. My home has become the vortex of all things furry. I’ve caught so many mice, I’ve worn out the springs on seven traps. I now have a favorite brand of mouse trap, and I buy them in packs of six. Every morning, I check my traps, empty and reload as necessary, and wear earplugs at night if the ones who are eluding me start partying in the walls. The dance of death continues. If your home is mouse-free, it’s because the world’s entire mouse population is slowly funneling through my home and into the compost bin. Yes, I’ve accepted it. And you’re welcome.

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