I am at war. 

It wages, morning, afternoon and night, against a mostly unseen, relentless adversary. This enemy is stealthy, often operating under the cover of darkness, but also boldly emerging during daylight hours. 

Every time I win a battle, every time I think that my opponent must be down to a final few warriors, it proves me wrong, rallies reinforcements and sends a seemingly endless wave of new attackers. They retreat silently and I have yet to find their stronghold. 

So, the conflict continues, likely into fall. If I don’t keep my defenses up, the fight could even come inside the four walls of our home. It has before.

And who is this great, formidable enemy that has me on edge?  

Mice. 

For the most part, we lived in Coeur d’Alene relatively free of these tiny, cute rodents but for a few sightings in the wood pile or scampering near the garage. It changed a few years back, when our neighbor moved out of her house. Seems her cellar/basement had quite a few mice living happily in its warmth and security. The new owner drove them out, and as I feared, they decided to call our property home.

I set up the usual perimeter defenses. Traps. Repellant spray. Poison pellets. It worked. But last summer, lulled by peacetime, I didn’t bother with safeguards. It all seemed fine until one night last winter when I was sitting in the kitchen and thought I heard a small, almost imperceptible sound from the food pantry. A slight movement. I turned my head to listen. 

It was a sound I heard several times when we lived on Kauai, where the mice population is quite healthy. They ate holes through walls to gain access. 

“Is that a mouse?” I said aloud to no one.

I went to investigate and began opening drawers. The evidence was irrefutable. Wrappers of energy bars chewed through. Oatmeal packets spilled. Pasta boxes gnawed on. And the big one: Droppings. 

As we began to pull everything out, I told my wife, “It’s probably still in here.” 

I was right. 

As we pulled away the last box in a corner a small, fury brown blur zipped past us and scurried behind the refrigerator. 

Fear struck my heart, for I am not a brave man.

Where there is one mouse, there are two. 

Because they had breached our lines, this called for extreme measures.  

I turned to the weapon I hate but sometimes must activate: sticky traps, effective, but cruel. Once a mouse touches it, game over. It is stuck, struggling for freedom that won’t come. Its fate is sealed once I come home and find it. Then, I must do the dirty work: Take it outside and finish the job. 

It seems a barbaric death, even for a mouse. I vowed not to use sticky traps after a mouse on Kauai managed to drag itself, trap too, under the oven trying to escape. (I swear they seemed to know how to avoid cheese traps). I didn’t find it for about a week when an awful smell arose. A lousy way to go and I felt bad about it. 

So far this summer the standard warfare weapons have done their job. Yet, the mice keep coming. They seem unfazed by repellant spray and avoid the poison pellets. They even managed to eat some of the cheese off the old spring-loaded cheese traps and return home safely. 

New cheese traps have done well, and the enemy’s toll is high. 

I think I’m close to winning the war. 

Perhaps not.

Mice are quite clever. I fear they will be back, in bigger numbers. And if left unchecked, they will find a way in. They are not timid creatures, but bold. I sense they are out there, plotting a new strategy. Assembling their forces. They are coming.

The contest between mice and a cowardly man is really never over. 

• • •

Bill Buley is assistant managing editor of The Press. He can be reached at [email protected].