They made the weekend bite.

Yeah, so the mice predicted that the last of the warm days were coming to an end and moved into the house Saturday evening. We caught three in about two hours. Others lost their lives in the slaughter.

I was sitting in the living room and kept hearing funny noises that I decided must be John clanking around outside the house up by the kitchen — this is a rickety old trailer house, you hear stuff. Then I heard the distinctive sound of a piece of dog food clanking in Cooper’s metal dish. Of all the stuff one hears in a trailer house, that shouldn’t be one of them when no known or permitted permanent occupants of the home, two-legged or four, are actually in the kitchen.

I checked the traps, and, huh, we already had caught one of the dirty little beggars. So I gave him a decent (enough) burial (in the dumpster), said a few kind words over him (“that’ll learn ya for good”), and came back to the house to re-bait traps. Caught two more right away and a third a few hours later, then another overnight. Caught a couple out in my tack shed too. Burials got progressively less heartfelt (no words, kind or otherwise), more utilitarian (just chuck the next corpse into the bin and re-bait).

The crew that invaded the house, must’ve went streaking directly to the kitchen and straight into the traps with only one making it around to the dog’s dish. So there’s that.

But, y’know, what home invasion is complete without the White Trash Estate’s perennial favorite: fleas. Yes, indeed, it was a banner weekend.

Cooper decided to do his part in furry rodent eradication and went after the bunnies which are, well, thick as fleas this fall and, apparently, thick with fleas right now. I can just see those damn fleas cussing as they get knocked off a bunny that’s runny in through the grass, evading our mighty hunter, the brick bullet Cooper. “Great! Where am I supposed to find a warm body to bite at this time of the day out here in all this friggin’ tall grass and metal crap? Oh, hey! A dog!!” And the flea flings itself like an acrobat at Cooper, grabbing flea-fists of hair as it makes contact with his new host. “Serendipity!”

Then, of course, Cooper brought the weekend’s one little freeloader into the house — where he asked to cuddle on my lap (because he can’t run fast enough chasing bunnies to warm is blood). And I live to serve. In fact, it’s the only reason I sit in my recliner, really, just to be there to warm up Cooper.

Then the little bastard gave me a flea. On. My. Face.

The only good news is that a flea on the face is easy to catch and dispatch. Sad that I know this, right? But the truth is: I’d rather not get them in the first place. Really.

So that happened at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40.com

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