We actually called the mouse hunting expert, Green Tractor for advice after the last piece where we just fed the mouse a delicious meal.
We invited him back for seconds. We wedged the traps, I filled them a little fuller, squished all the good stuff in the crevices. And waited.
Sarge went back out, two traps were where we left them. Two were missing. Apparently he looked back to where we were pretty sure the mouse was hiding and apparently found it, because he came in the house and said this:
"Hey, you kids want to see a dead mouse?"
Cheers went up, my blood-thirsty children all waved their arms in delight and excitement to see the dead mouse, even after they were warned about how gross it was.
I sunk in my chair, not wanting to be asked.
They all came back in, the children totally calm and collected. I asked, "was it gross?"
The middle child, the same one who begged us to see a dead prairie dog in the road in South Dakota, BEGGED, said, "Nah, it wasn't gross at all. He just looked like this!" She proceeded to lay on the floor, on her side, legs and arms stiff out in front of her, with her eyes closed and her tongue sticking out to one side. Her younger brother nodded in agreement that her positioning was good.
Sarge came back in and told me that I shouldn't use the trash can between then and Trash Day. And that there was a little trail of blood that I should either avoid or ignore.
But here's the thing. We left the other three traps in the garage on the floor, unset, while we decided what we should do with them, if we should throw them away or save them for a mouse-y day or set them again, just in case. We both remember where the were.
They're gone. Missing.
I have a feeling that we're not done yet.