A Post About the Mouse in My House
Before we left for Florida last week, I became convinced I was not alone in my apartment. I’m usually not actually alone in my apartment, because usually Carmichael, the muppet/cat I adopted last year, is also at home with me. But he was staying at Chase’s (we keep the cats together in one apartment when we go out of town to make it easier for our friends to feed them. This works perfectly well for them, it would not necessarily work perfectly well for all cats) so I should have been alone. I then heard what sounded like some squeaking coming from the second bedroom/office/litter box/Peloton room and noticed that some of the dregs of Carmichael’s bowl of dry food were missing and I immediately assumed the worst.
“I think there’s a mouse in my apartment?” I texted my friends, conveying what I thought was an understated and casual level of panic. “There’s mice in the walls of every apartment,” one texted me back. “You live in New York City.” Fair enough, but mice are one thing I have never had the pleasure of dealing with in eight-plus years of life here. Bedbugs, the occasional cockroach, bad landlords (but I repeat myself) — these are all things I have come to understand as table stakes in a New York City apartment. I have never had a rodent in an apartment, but I’d also never lived in a 90-year-old building until this spring. With Carmichael gone, the temperature dropping outside…
