There really isn’t a big difference between the smell of a dead mouse and the smell of living mice who have come to live in your house. However, I live in Casa La Pibbla, the House of the Female Pit Bulls, and the odds of anything else surviving their zoomies up and down the hallways at odd hours is miniscule. It’s a never ending stampede of paws in this place and mice are crushed rather easily. For that matter, it’s fairly certain that wildebeests would be trampled to death here and only my close and personal relationship with my savior, the fifty pound bag of dog food, saves me from death. Back Bitches! I have the food bowls!
My in-depth investigation reveals that there are no dead mammals in the house. However, someone small and with rodent like teeth has been feasting on the bird seed. There is a trail of cracked sunflower seeds leading into the laundry room where I discover the strongest odor is coming from the one place I hope that it isn’t; the dryer. To have mice nesting under or, dog forbid, inside of the dryer is biblical in its disastrous potential.
I move both washer and dryer, sweep up all the debris, and there is sure Mouse Sign here. I’m thinking many more than one, but likely less than fifteen thousand, yes, somewhere in that range, here there be meecees.
There are some positives here. One, I work outside a lot and around heavy equipment and that’s an environment where how a man smells, even if he smells like there are mice living in his dryer, isn’t going to be a career ender. Hell, come Summer, I will be lucky if that is all some of the guys smell like. Also, I’m not dating right now, and that’s certainly a good thing because mouse urine, as far as I know, has never been sold as an aphrodisiac. Of course, I don’t know that the dryer smells like mouse urine but because it could smell like mouse urine I’m paranoid. It’s like cleaning dog poo off your shoes before you go to someone’s house and you swear you can still smell it and then you get convinced they can smell it and before long you can smell it when you’re in the shower and have to check your feet.
And right now, there’s no point in trying to date until I can figure out which one of the permanent dogs has been peeing on the floor as a form of protest against Tanya, who pees on the floor about once every three days because the other dog is peeing on the floor, too. Tanya knows what I’m saying when I tell her not to pee on the floor and she pees when I take her outside and so does Lilith and Tyger Linn. But every once in a while there’s a Pibble Piddle Puddle and I have to get the vinegar out and try to salvage what’s left of the carpet in my bedroom.
There’s nothing that turns a woman on more than stepping into a wet carpet in the middle of the night, not that I’m likely to get that far anytime soon, but I’m a guy; we’re a gender prone to wild optimism when it comes to sex.
Oddly, male mice are too. They tend to think they can attract a female by peeing on everything. I’ve known grown men who couldn’t aim worth a damn in the bathroom, and maybe it’s the mouse in them that keeps them spraying this way. Certainly there’s no mistaking the odor of urine, man or mouse, and that’s going to cause both parties more trouble than they need at the end of the day. In the case of men, some woman is either going to meekly accept the idea of misguided misses or she’s going to go Bobbit on him. The mice, on the other hand, are going to find that I can set traps and take away their food supply and Clorox the whole of the laundry room. The birdseed is gone and won’t return until next winter.
What I really need to do is get a two meter long rat snake and turn it loose in the house. Of course, that Pibble thing, where they might react with less enthusiasm when greeting a slithery housemate. And there, again, is the dating thing, where a woman might just react with less than wild passion if I whip my snake out for her. I’ve learned over the years, uh, decades, that women can be damn particular about a few things; the way a bathroom smells is one of those things, and a two meter long snake is another. Honestly, men, this is one of those cases where size really doesn’t matter; no matter how long your snake is a woman isn’t likely to react any more, or any less positively than if your snake was short. If a woman really wants to see your snake you’ll known it.
So tonight I spilled about a liter of beef broth all over me, the kitchen floor, the top of Tanya the Destroyer, who had tripped me, and wound up spilling a lot more into the trash can, as the liner collapsed. I did not mean to do any of this. Now, my home has the pleasant steak house odor to it that supersedes any and all other olfactory emissions within a kilometer. Also, there is a spot on the kitchen floor that has been thoroughly cleaned twice; once by the Three Amigas and once by me. I have no doubt there will be tiny teeth marks on my kitchen floor on the morrow and perhaps a new nest to be found under the sink. Yes, that would be thrilling, wouldn’t it?