Nix the poison. Someone pointed out that, if you poison them, they up and die in the walls where you can't find them and then stink to high heaven. Better to die in the traps, where at least I know where they are.
Speaking of traps:
So I'm going about my day (if, by 'going about my day' you mean
trolling the internet for inane celebrity gossip that, in all honesty,
I don't even care about, but I just feel like unhappy employees are
supposed to spend their days doing that. God, even my dissatisfaction
with life is cliche) and a mouse runs under my desk.
I leap up, glancing wildly about for a frying pan (since, of course, that's what they kill mice with in cartoons).
Nope. No frying pan.
But I do have a large Yellow Pages near my desk. (How is Yellow Pages
still in business anyway? Where would you ever be that you'd have
access to this ridiculously heavy phone book that you wouldn't be able
to log on to a computer?) It's paperback. Too soft? But if I throw it really
hard, I might get it.
But it doesn't matter. The rat runs across the sticky trap.
It gets stuck.
I breathe a sigh of relief and collapse onto my chair.
But -- no -- I spoke too soon.
The mouse struggles for a few minutes, then begins to emit a
horrifying, high-pitched squeak. Only, it's not really a squeak, but
more of a squeal. Or maybe not a squeal, but it's a .....
Regardless, it's one of the most terrible noises I have ever heard in my life.
And no one cares.
I go to tell my boss. He tells me it will die soon enough.
But this noise is continuing and, though just a few moments ago I was griping about the unsanity nature of these rodents, now all I can think about is how it's this little, alive thing that is in pain.
It's a rat, it's a rat, I try to tell myself.
But now, all of a sudden, it seems like maybe it could be a mouse (what's the difference anyway? I never figured that out) and it's just this tiny thing and I am the reason it is hurting.
So I go tell Jane, my co-worker who is my only ally in this shithole of an office, but she's equally traumatized, if not more so, because she's vegan and so cares about this (still gross and disgusting, if I'm going to be totally honest) mouse just as much as she cares about the cute, cuddly and yummy animals she chooses not to eat.
But I can't just leave it like that -- lying there, squealing and dying. It's a mouse, but it's still inhumane.
So I search for someone else -- anyone else -- but it's a tiny office, so there aren't a lot of people to pick from in the beginning and it's lunchtime, so whoever would normally be here isn't right now.
I have one option: Ron, the chubby/greasy guy from Accounting.
I don't want to do it (he leers and always has food in his teeth and grease stains on his tie that I hope are from food he eats, but which, in actuality, I believe may be coming from his own body). But I have no choice.
I go over to his desk. He's chowing down on a greasy hamburger.
I clear my throat. No response. So -- again. Then: "R-r-r-ron?" I stammer, and he finally looks up, wiping his oily hands on his slacks.
There is a piece of lettuce between his front teeth.
"There's a mouse stuck in trap," I begin. I give him a basic low-down of the story. Can he help, I ask?
"God, you're such a girl," he says with his mouth full, then laughs at his own joke, almost choking at a piece of half-chewed burger in the process. "It's just like squashing a bug. Don't be such a wuss."
Well, that sets me off. I am not "such a girl." I can take care of this myself. I tell him "thanks, but nevermind."
And I go back to my desk and I grab the Yellow Pages. I stand on my chair, thinking added height will increase the gravity which will add to velocity and -- oh, heck, I should have paid more attention in physics class -- and I throw it.
The squeaking stops.
I think I did the right thing, but I have never felt worse in my life.
This was very different than squashing a bug.