Scampy Didn’t Want To Die

(Warning: A photo at the end of this article is not for the squeamish.)

We figured a mouse trap would do the trick.

We underestimated Scampy.

Scampy showed up in our kitchen Monday afternoon, darting like a laser across the stovetop, under the fridge, out of sight.

Carole and her husband (i.e., me) had had experience with ants swarming on counters and into casseroles. We had seasons of pantry moth combat under our belts. I knew firsthand about the evil efficacy of roach motels. We’d found dead mice in the basement.

This was the first time a live mouse had entered the kitchen. We weren’t sure how to get her out.

First we picked up some Victor brand traps. Looked simple. 

We found the plastic traps next to impossible to assemble and keep in place — there was no assembly, just a piece that wouldn’t stay in place so it kept snapping shut. A Google search confirmed that we weren’t alone.

So we called our friend Jay. He’d had experience removing mice from his house. He told us the right brand of trap to buy: Tomcat. Always worked.

There was one mouse-specific Tomcat box left at Walgreens. But it turned out there’s more than one way to thwart a mouse: The box we bought left poison bait for mice to eat then eventually drop dead somewhere.

That sounded cruel to us. (We’re a vegan-vegetarian mixed marriage.) But to be honest, we were more concerned about the ick/eek factor: Wandering the house or waiting days to suddenly come across a dead rodent.

Meanwhile Scampy continued popping out in the kitchen and dining room. We tried leaving crumbs leading to an open door to lead her outside. Scampy wasn’t having it. And she was too quick to catch with a bucket or broom.

We didn’t want Scampy staying in the house. But even if we weren’t quite rooting for her, her perseverance and pluck were growing on us.

A third trip to a different store produced boxes of the ​“clean, no-touch disposal” Tomcat brand traps that would hold their target in one place with an easy way to unsnap it into the trash.

We dabbed some peanut butter in several traps, placed them in a couple of rooms.

Scampy emerged again. We followed her into the downstairs half-bathroom — and shut the door. At least we had her confined. Back to the War Room to strategize.

We slipped a trap into the bathroom, shut the door again. We figured now we could wait Scampy out. It wasn’t kind. But … what had to be done, had to be done.

So we waited. We kept the bathroom door closed overnight, so the trap would have time to do its sinister magic.

First thing Tuesday morning, I braced myself to finish the job.

I cracked open the bathroom door. No sight of Scampy scurrying.

I peeked into the trap on the floor. Scampy appeared to be crammed inside it. Still. Done for.

Sorry to see you again, Scampy. But business is business.

I went to pick up the trap to complete the ​“easy,” ​“clean, no-touch disposal.” And out scooted Scampy behind the toilet.

From upstairs Carole heard me yelling ​“Scampy!” — that’s how startled I was.

I shut the door lest Scampy escape into the kitchen and eliminate our tactical advantage.

Carole came downstairs for a fresh round of strategy. 

I argued that, as much as Scampy had won our sympathy (in my case, affection), brutal methods were called for: That first Tomcat device with the poison bait.

My argument eventually prevailed. I slipped that device into the bathroom, quickly shut the door.

Then we went about our day. Scampy had fought a valiant battle to survive. Hats off to you, little friend. We’ll ​“see” you later in the day.

By 6 p.m., Scampy had now shared our home for at least 30 hours. I opened the bathroom door. I looked around.

There in the wicker trash basket lay Scampy. Motionless. Game over.

I went to get a bag to put Scampy in. I picked up the basket. And …

… out leapt little Scampy. Back behind the toilet.

What now?

I grabbed a broom. Carole grabbed a plastic bucket. We reentered the bathroom, squeezed inside, closed the door.

Scampy darted under the sink. We tried to catch her in the bucket. She darted back behind the toilet next to the toilet bowl cleaner. We moved the bottle. She ran again amid specks of mouse feces.

I tried reason.

“Scampy,” I pleaded. We were on a first-name basis now. Especially since we didn’t know her last name.

“We don’t want you to die. I know you’re scared. Please come out! We can bring you outside.”

Scampy wasn’t convinced. Cornered, she ran. Cornered again, she ran. Carole and I felt like dumb characters in a dumb sitcom.

Finally I brought down the broom. Took a deep breath. Applied pressure.

And there lay Scampy. Motionless again. This time for good. Our slapstick comedy careened to a tragic ending. 

We swept Scampy into a bucket. I brought her to Edgewood Park for her final resting place, where I bade her well on the next step of her journey.

You were an inspirational visitor, Scampy. You made a valiant 30-hour last quest for life. You outwitted us for sure; way to go. So sorry it had to end this way.