I noticed the ominous scratching late at night. At first, I thought it was a mouse rummaging in the recycling bin, but that was not it. Tracing the sound to the bathroom, I pinpointed it to a spot about head-high on an interior wall, and the creature was chewing, not scratching.
Things began to come together in my mind. A week or two earlier, I discovered something had filled the center tube of my last roll of toilet paper with purloined almonds. A chipmunk or squirrel, a friend surmised. I had my doubts. For one, there was no evidence of an entry hole of adequate size.
I had made it this far this winter without having to share the house with rodents, which had surprised me. But now here they were, and it was them or me.
Ever since hantavirus became a thing on the East End, it has been war. Not that I am squeamish about such things. Far from it: I tried my hand at curing fresh mouse pelts as a school project when I was a young thing. The Hampton Day School in Bridgehampton in those days was surrounded by farm fields and had mice aplenty. Need I say more?
As I looked around my place this week, I noticed more signs: Droppings on the stove, and something had been chewing the feet of the dishrack. As a precaution, I try to keep things a mouse can get after in jars, the refrigerator, and the microwave. I’ve thought about heading to the woodshop to make a metal-mesh pie safe, too.
The traps came out, and not the sort that require taking the inmates several miles away and dropping them by the side of the road. I’ll try Havaharts or the equivalent soon, but this was an emergency.