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The truth about Mickey Mouse

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By night three of sleeping in my truck – can you call it camping when your truck is parked in your driveway? – I finally worked up enough courage to set mousetraps in my studio apartment suite.

My place was overrun with mice. It took a few days to figure out I even had them. I kept having dreams of mice scurrying up and down the foot of my bed. An astute spiritual student, I pondered what the universe was trying to tell me by the dream. What was I meant to learn? What part of my life needed to be looked at?

My living quarters and sanity, apparently, as reality reared its ugly mouse droppings head around my living space.

The kind of girl who drove a hurt bird all the way from Whistler to the Burnaby wildlife shelter after it ploughed into my window, I sought out the most humane route first.

I gave the mice a good talking to the first night.

"Alright guys, I understand rent is expensive in Whistler, but I am not looking for any roommates," I reasoned.

My argument fell on deaf ears; apparently varmints can’t be reasoned with.

Next step: humane mousetraps. The kind where food lures them into a box structure and the door closes behind them. I wasn’t worried about finding a place to release them. I knew a few deserving homes, particularly the party house down the street that blared bad ’80s music into the a.m. hours.

A few phone calls later, I learned the humane traps were only available in Vancouver and came with a $50 price tag.

Night two rolled around in the back of my truck with Teddy looking at me as if saying, "What the hell are we doing here?" I was exhausted, never sleeping for more than a few hours in the cramped quarters. I didn’t know what to do. I pondered my options while pulling a towel out for my shower and watched mouse droppings fall out from the folds. I checked my clothing, cupboards and drawers. Their dirty little traces laughing at me around every corner.

I declared war.

In less than an hour, my serene living space was turned into a battlefield of lethal mousetraps smeared with peanut butter. This was the last night I would sleep in the truck – or so I told myself.

Night three: I woke to find the mice licked the traps clean without setting any of the traps off.

"Arggh!" I screamed, shaking my fist at the heavens. These three-inch little buggers were not going to get the best of me. I called in Special Forces: Lindtt dark chocolate with nuts.

I slathered the peanut butter on once more, pressed the dark chocolate into the foot trap. I felt sorry for the mice for a moment, a very fleeting moment. Mice and women. We shared a common bond. I should be dead one hundred times over with the amount of chocolate I consumed.

I took my landlord’s advice to stop being ridiculous and sleep in the house.

"Teddy will keep them away," he reasoned.

Teddy kept a keen eye on them from the bed, while hiding behind me.

Our chocolate bond broke with a snap, and then rattling as a mouse met its maker. A mouse running up on my bed was the least of my worries as metal bars snapping shut rang the death bell all night long.

With maybe six hours of sleep for the week, I did what any rational single girl would do. I cried, declared war on my landlord, called a close friend with hotel connections and booked myself into a hotel.

From foam in the back of my truck to a king size bed and fresh linens with no unwanted surprises, I was transported from hell to the heavenly Summit Lodge. What luxury. I found sanity again in the quiet, beautifully decorated rooms with mountain views and sunny patio. Long baths became more decadent with products from the Taman Sari Spa – the soap and moisturizer is now a part of my daily skin care routine. Teddy was welcomed with open arms and I spent much of the time unwinding the week’s horrors in the hot tub.

My landlords finally faced the squeaking music and called in an exterminator to solve the problem. Three weeks later, I am finally roommate free, but I’ll never be able to look at Mickey Mouse the same way again.

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