This weekend, Mark and I officially became New Yorkers.
How so? Do ten years living in a walk-up on the Upper West Side, a sleazy landlord, subway commutes and a hardened skin count for nothing?
Well Sunday night, I discovered a mouse in our house. Yes, Mark and I are finally New Yorkers because we have a live-in rodent.
I heard scratching coming from a closet and approached slowly, carrying our cat in one hand. Our (Neanderthal) upstairs neighbors had reported a mouse recently, so I've been on the look out.
I turned on the hall light and eased open the closet door. There, sandwiched between folders of old tax returns, was a tiny grey mouse, about an inch long. His whiskers twitched at me mockingly.
Long story short, the cat wound up walking away. Then the mouse did too, after I shined a flashlight into his beady little eyes. Argh!
So Mark and I are discussing glue traps vs. 'humane traps' vs. the old-fashioned metal mousetraps. My rodent-experienced friends are pitching in their advice, telling me many a tale about how some poor mice met their end.
To be continued.
Related posts: Fashionista Not, On the Streets and on the Runways and Fashionably Late.