When I first moved to North Carolina, I lived in a ramshackle farmhouse with my boyfriend, his brother and girlfriend. There, for the first time in my life, I encountered mice. I used to think cartoons featuring women leaping onto chairs at the sight of mice were exaggerations, but I did the same thing, without a thought. And these were mighty mice, gorging on superfoods left out by our new age housemates. The mice didn’t wait till evening to raid the pantry; they came in broad daylight, waving their tails at me as they fed. I broke down in tears, telling my boyfriend I couldn’t take it. He asked his brother and girlfriend to store their food in mouse-proof containers, and we set out traps to deal with what turned out to be a chronic problem.

Trying to contain mice in the closet. Laughable.

The farmhouse we bought after we married was owner-built and riddled with rodent access points. I was distraught, but not surprised, when I saw evidence of mice. We sealed whatever holes we could find, but they always got in. I’d hear the snap of a trap in the night, followed by a struggle, the trap clattering against the floor while the mouse tried to free itself. It was unnerving and I took no pleasure in their deaths, but I wanted them gone.

When we moved to the city, I foolishly believed my mouse problems were behind me. I was now in a modern house which seemed well-sealed, safe from rodents. But my home’s proximity to the woods made it a target. Although mouse-free the first few months, come winter I saw the ominous signs of a home invasion— mouse pellets, chewed bags of food, and fluffs of fabric piled up in the back corners of closets for nest-building. My world collapsed and I had to be talked down from moving. We put out traps again.

During the year after my divorce, I dealt with mice on my own. I wore sunglasses when I disposed of them, as my naked eyes couldn’t bear the sight of their dead bodies. My new husband, truly a modern day Dr. Dolittle, would not participate in my “stand your ground” deadly force response to intruders, and introduced me to have-a-heart traps. Preferring catch and release anyway, I began using them. Last year, though, the traps failed us. Lured by peanut butter, mice entered the traps, only to push their way out after enjoying their meal. I could hear when the mice gained their liberty, and wondered how they might be exacting their revenge. I’d already witnessed the decimation of the contents of my bathroom cabinet—shredded soap bars, gnawed on barrettes and scrunchies, mouse pellets everywhere. Between the loss of items I cared about and the disgust I felt while cleaning up their excrement, I was desperate.

Circling the wagons around the furnace door with the have-a-heart traps.

Then trap failure happened while my husband was away. Around midnight, I heard a trap snap shut. I popped up in bed and opened the bedroom door. I flicked on the hall light just in time to witness the trap door open and a mouse escape. I quickly shut the bedroom door, my heart racing. I lay back down and heard the trap snap shut again. I burst out of the bedroom, grabbed the trap before the mouse could get out and decided to relocate the mouse immediately. Barefoot, in only a night shirt, and surely smelling of the glass of wine I’d had before bed, I found my car keys and went out to perform the release. I held the trap closed with one hand while I steered with the other, praying not to get pulled over before I reached the drop-off point, several miles away.

This was my first solo release. I stood by the railroad tracks and, with a half-shout, pulled open the trap and winged the contraption, mouse and all, into the woods. Then I got back into the car and drove home. The next morning, wanting to double check that the mouse had gotten out safely, I returned to the drop-off spot and saw the open trap not far from the entrance to the woods.

This January we’re insulating the crawlspace beneath our home. We had the space inspected by a company we eventually hired. The inspector showed photos of the subfloor, pointing out several gaps where mice could easily enter our living space. His men would seal up every gap, he promised, as part of the job. The price of the bid seemed high, but I couldn’t get the pictures out of my head. You can’t put a price on peace of mind. I said yes, please do this, as soon as possible. I wonder, will 2018 be the year when I no longer worry about mice in the home? I do hope so. And I hope the black snake, which visited inside our home twice (truly horrifying) will guard us from mice, too. I mean these creatures no ill will, and wish never to harm or stress them by releasing them far from their known territory, but we all have limits, and this is one I know far too well.

Read Aunt Helen's Attic by Diane