Vacor, for instance, a rodenticide that looks like cornmeal, destroys the beta cells of the pancreas, causing instant diabetes, followed by chest pain, impaired intellect, coma, and finally death. A diabetic mouse with severe hyperglycemia will develop an incredible thirst and head outside to look for water—you don’t have to tear your house apart tracking down odors. Strychnine is another possibility. An overdose of strychnine destroys the nerves and causes convulsions. The sick rodent cannot bear noise or bright light. It dies a prolonged, agonizing death of utter torment. That kind of mouse wouldn’t opt for the hustle and bustle of the outdoors. That’s a hide-in-the-drywall mouse.

All in all, the trap is more humane. But I was so angry at the inconvenience I had been through—disturbed sleep, fright, the loss of snack foods—that the thought of a mouse writhing in pain out in a field somewhere did not bother my conscience in the slightest. The opposite was the case. It gave me satisfaction. Die, suckah!

I set three of the traps in the kitchen using peanut butter as bait. I put another in the bedroom and one behind the living-room couch. That night, moments after I turned off the lights, I heard one of the kitchen traps go off. Wap! Man, I almost hit the ceiling. I wasn’t sure if I heard a shriek or not. It all happened so fast. In the blink of an eye, an execution.

I’m embarrassed to admit that I was a little afraid to confront the consequences. But what could I do? I picked up my heavy shoe and went out. The victim was a gray mouse with broad, powerful shoulders, prickly chin whiskers, red beady eyes, and a short stumpy tail. Its mouth was open, exposing a crimson tongue and sharp yellow teeth. Ahggh! The trap had snapped its neck. I picked up the trap and quickly tossed it in the garbage. How that mouse had so totally destroyed the Wheat Thins was beyond me, but such are the mysteries of life. There, I’m thinking. Done! Half an hour later I was sawing logs.

In the morning I got up and went to the kitchen to make coffee and I saw another mouse, this one still alive, with one paw caught in a trap. It was trying to drag-ass out of there. I got my work gloves out of the garage and picked up the trap, the mouse hanging down from it, wriggling. I put the mouse in a coffee can, and then—I don’t know what made me do it, maybe because Christmas was coming—I punched some holes in it for air. The mouse’s foot was smashed, but otherwise it was okay. I set the can in the garage and went off to work.