Mousetrap Is Hell

Mousetrap. Damn it. Mouse about. Detritus abounds. He has been here. And there. And there and there and there. (Surely a he. The evil gender designation for the verminous interloper.) Have to trap. Not a von trap. There is no music play to this ploy. Just the sound of trap snap. Sad. But necessary. Before his family feels infestive and joins the fun. Supermarket tiny trap. In the vermin and infestation aisle, alongside the pretty poisons. Glue trap? Eegad. Is there a more inhumane slow-death device ever invented? No. Old fashioned, wooden base, metal bail, baited trigger, a sudden simple sufferless death. This is your grandfather’s trap, thank grid. Set that night. Morning corpse delivered. But now…disposal? It’s a new trap. A dollar and change. Throw it away with the furry form? Dispense with the diminutive cadaver and save the set-up? But then, how to clean? Disinfect? Is it ever free from germ and bug? Does it even work again? Or does the next mouse sniff the trace of trauma and the scent of doom? And has this trapper violated an Eastern religion prohibition of killing creatures and ensuring karmic reincarnation as a critter to be snaptrapped in the life anext? Guilty. Cursed. PETAviled even. Mousetrap. Damn it. My life is a hell.