I was going to put a picture up of all the mouse turds on my dresser, but thought better of it. There is a lot of it. Trust.
Before we gave up our ferret (I knew it was a huge mistake) there were no sign of the fuckers. But now I hear them all the time.
This morning I went into the dungeon to get an outfit (that's the only place all my clothes will fit) and I could hear one dying. DYING! It was squealing and screaming in its little mouse voice, and you could tell he was just suffering. That is Mike's fault. He decided a few days ago to wage war on them and, since I am the only one home all day every day, I get to be the one who hears traps snap and mice scream in agony. It's heartbreaking. Mike seems to think the mice are going to crawl into our son's crib and eat him alive. I don't buy it but traps and poison are better than the peanut-butter-around-the-edge-of-a-big-bucket-of-water idea he had before.
But what's worse is that there is mouse shit all over my dresser. I think there might be nests in and amongst my clothes so I'm terrified to sift through the drawers. You can smell the poop as soon as you open the dungeon door and I hear them rustling around, going about their day. It gives me the heebie jeebies. I think there are too many. I think there are hundreds.
All night long we can hear them running back and forth across the ceiling (it's a drop ceiling so we can hear it really well) and it goes on all night.
I don't think the problem is this prominent throughout the rest of the house. If it were, my father would have probably bought a new house at this point. So I'm not going to say anything. My mother will read this anyway.
The traps and the poison don't seem to be doing the trick just yet.