1 night.
8 traps.
6 dead mice.
I feel like I need some Monty Python bloke to wheel a barrow past my door singing "Bring out yer dead!" Farm house or not, I do not tolerate any creature with neither functional sphincters nor clothes in my pantry. Or on my table or counter top or cupboards or in my silverware drawer - etc . . . . I'm tired of washing everything every day.
And how do they get in the places they do, anyway? Grappling hooks? Tiny helicopters? Little catapults?
Sheesh.
The war continues.
Posts
ginny--stopped by after a long hiatus, and, gird your loins, woman: embrace the trapline! i love those plastic traps. they love old houses and particularly how we provide them entertainment, heat, and food. buggers.