We’ve had a mouse in the house off and on for for the last few years.

There’s only one mouse in the house at a time. They don’t come in droves, thank goodness.

Although, how would I really know? Unless I manage to shoot one with a Purple Paint Gun, or dress him in yellow knickers and a vest, they all look alike to me. Sorry if that sounds bigoted.

We have an older house and somehow, probably through Facebook groups, they’ve discovered the Paradise that awaits if they but open the door.

What I think happens is that one of them tells a member of his family about this “great little joint downtown,” and they keep it on the down low, passing it on only to the first born of every generation.

Mice are very wise. They know if more than one family member shows up at a time our carving knife comes right out.

We are mostly kindhearted people in the Mouse House. We’ve tried peppermint, bags of voodoo leaves, foam caulking, cheese sacrifices at the full moon, wire screens, locking up all the dog food and treats, and finally a trap.

The trap was too small. This generation’s mouse is stronger and bigger than previous generations. A few weeks ago, I found the glass jar of dog vitamins still standing, the metal lid unscrewed, and most of the remaining dog vitamins scattered in the drawer. That’s pretty skillful thievery.

These mice send their kids to college and they have higher incomes. Educated mice eat better, exercise more, and live in nicer houses.  They live longer, too.

I know this, because the MOTH (man of the house), just walked into the kitchen, saw our dog Sugar jump for the bottom of the washing machine after a disappearing tail, and said, not knowing I was writing this, “How long do mice live?”

Came the squeaky answer, “Longer than you think, mofo!”

One year, the resident mouse got into the Benadryl. What a party he had. You could hear him banging around behind the sink for hours. There was squeaky laughter and disco music–featuring The Captain and Tenille–drifting upward with the reefer fumes while I washed dishes.

They were having a better time than I was. That really sucked.

We bought a bunch of those little lighted plugs that apparently make a noise so high only mice can hear it. And then they’re supposed to bitch to code enforcement about noise violations and move. Our guys never move.

Whether these plugs work or not, is debatable. I’m not a mouse, and neither is the manufacturer. How does anyone know what a mouse hears, and if they hear a noise, whether they hate it?

These plugs are now in outlets all over the house. We even put one in the cupboard that used to hold the dog’s dry food. The cord makes the cupboard door stand open just a crack, enough to let the mellow soft light from the high noise plug thingy shine out, just a little.

Tantalizingly soft and welcoming, like your boyfriend’s bedroom from when you were twenty.

I wanted to move into our cupboard.

I opened the door once, real quick like, and caught a rock and roll band playing in the middle of it, a disco ball spinning slowly, and a bunch of furry patrons dancing cheek to cheek.

“Cheese it!” one shouted, and that was that. Dead silence, nothing left but glitter on the floor.

Other than that, it’s been a slow week. I did talk to one human mouse at the pool the other day.

He walked up to where I was in the water at the side doing my exercises, and pointed at the hydrobells I’d been using. They’re great for resistance exercises. In the pool.

“Are those heaters?” he asked me.

I should have said yes, and then given him a Bendryl. Watched him disco his way through the water.

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