Mouse Maelstrom

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to live inside a candy cane? Not once? I find that hard to believe. Judging from the nonsensical blogs you read (ex. this one), you're the sort of person who would have pondered habitation within the walls of genetically modified-corn-syrup-laden holiday treats at least once in your life. Fine, we'll play it your way and pretend you're not as crazy as you really are. Here's the answer:

Minty.

That's right. Minty. When sealed up inside a candy cane the only thing your senses will be able to register is intense brain-shattering minty-ness.

Which is exactly what I am living in right now. Did you know that mice have a natural aversion to mint? This is what the internet has taught me. I had to resort to Google since the surveys I left for the mice to fill out regarding their likes and dislikes have yet to be completed and returned. Well that's not entirely true, one did come back but in red ink. How hard is it to follow the instruction "please use a #2 HB pencil" ?! If you can lick the peanut butter off a trap without meeting certain death, then you can properly fill out a multiple choice survey dammit!

Right, so the internet told me that since mice don't like mint, a good way to make your house less desirable for them to live in is to saturate every molecule of matter in it with peppermint essential oil. So I spent a day dousing cotton balls with mint oil and shoving them in little holes, spraying the carpet perimeter of each room with peppermint infused water, and in general just doing my best to leave no surface un-minted. By nightfall the fumes were so strong I was having intense urges to go outside and hang festively over the branch of my neighbor's evergreen tree. So after all that work and all that delirium, you can only imagine how enraged I was to hear the scritchy-scratch of tiny vermin in my walls come 11:00pm. How is this possible?!

There is only one obvious answer: They were ready for it. They knew what was coming. Clearly they logged onto my computer while I was sleeping and searched my internet browsing history. "How To Destroy The Lives of Rodents" would have come up as a top hit. Sneaky buggers. And if you're a mouse who's just discovered the massive chemical warfare about to be unleashed on your kind, what do you stock up on? You guessed it: gas masks.

Teeny-tiny mouse-sized gas masks. There's an independent wholesaler based out of Texas that specializes in miniatures - you can get ANYTHING there but in 1/50th of the regular size. I bet that's who they went with. So not only are they resourceful fuckers but they don't even support the local economy! Yes, perhaps Mike the Miniature Man in Winnipeg isn't quite as skilled as Billy-Bob Baggarly but c'mon, do the words MADE IN CANADA not pull on your ethical heartstrings in any way?!

So there you have it. Astute, organized and outfitted for war. Can there be any other logical explanation of why my mint efforts failed so pitifully? No? Then Occam's razor it is.*

So if you're reading this mice, heed my message: I'M ON TO YOU. May we meet in battle. 2:00a.m. My kitchen. You with your toothpick ninja stick thingy, me with my tinfoil hat and laser gun made from toilet paper rolls and red cellophane. When its all said and done, only one of us will be nibbling holes in the bottom of Raisin Bran boxes.......

*Some may dispute that the simplest explanation probably ISN'T computer-savvy mice ordering combat paraphernalia online from a Texan. May I direct those folks here.