Autumn in Rural Kent: Operation Mousetrap Begins Again

Autumn is creeping towards us again.

For those of us who live out in the sticks, you can tell it’s coming long before somebody on the television starts standing beneath a tree turning copper and gold, telling us summer is officially over.

The evenings begin drawing in. The spiders suddenly achieve the dimensions of small household pets. Leaves start appearing everywhere except, apparently, on the trees. Garden furniture needs putting away, hedges need one final assault and there’s always something outside that needs painting before six months of rain makes the decision for you.

And then there are the mice.

Country mice are clever little souls. They spend summer perfectly content in fields, hedgerows, sheds and barns, presumably enjoying the rural lifestyle.

Then September arrives.

At roughly that point, they appear to hold an annual property conference.

Why spend winter underneath a hedge when, just a few yards away, there’s a perfectly serviceable house with insulation, central heating, cupboards and — if they strike lucky — somebody who drops biscuit crumbs?

As a member of The Shepway Vox Team, I live rurally, so mice aren’t exactly an unexpected development. They were here before us and will probably still be here when somebody eventually turns our house into a collection of executive homes called something ridiculous like Mouse Meadow.

My partner, however, takes a rather different view.

So does our daughter, Sophie.

Their position is straightforward: no mouse, mice, vole, shrew or anything else possessing whiskers and an inability to contribute towards the council tax will be spending winter indoors.

Thus began what our son, Jack, christened Operation Mousetrap.

Apparently, this required equipment.

Lots of equipment.

Boxes began arriving containing traps of various shapes and sizes. Some looked traditional. Others appeared sufficiently sophisticated to have been developed by the Ministry of Defence.

Then came the great strategic question.

What bait do you put in a mousetrap?

“Cheese,” Sophie announced.

“Why cheese?”

“Because mice eat cheese.”

“How do you know?”

“They just do.”

This, apparently, was the end of the scientific discussion.

The evidence appeared principally to consist of several decades of cartoons in which mice have demonstrated an overwhelming preference for enormous triangular pieces of Swiss cheese.

Unfortunately, real mice haven’t watched the same cartoons.

The modern consensus is rather less exciting. Given a choice, mice are particularly keen on things such as seeds, grains, nuts and other energy-rich foods. They’ll certainly eat cheese, but the ancient image of a mouse prepared to cross continents for a lump of Cheddar owes rather more to popular culture than mouse haute cuisine.

I presented this information to the household.

It wasn’t well received.

“Rubbish.”

“But—”

“Mice like cheese.”

There are moments in a long relationship when a person has to decide whether being right is actually worth anything.

This wasn’t one of them.

I retreated.

Operation Mousetrap commenced.

Now, you might imagine there would be perhaps two traps in the loft.

Maybe another behind the washing machine, one beneath the kitchen cupboards and perhaps a couple tucked discreetly away elsewhere if intelligence suggested particularly heavy enemy activity.

There are 27.

Twenty-seven mousetraps scattered around the house and loft.

Our home now has greater defensive capability than several small nations.

The loft is heavily fortified, the kitchen has forward positions, cupboards have become potential ambush sites and even walking around certain parts of the house requires the sort of concentration normally associated with crossing an unmarked minefield.

At this point, I’m no longer entirely sure whether we’re trying to keep the mice out or preparing for a small-scale invasion.

I suggested this might be excessive.

My opinion was noted and immediately disregarded.

I then made the mistake of advancing the argument that we live in the countryside and therefore occasionally encountering wildlife is rather part of the deal.

There are owls outside. Bats fly over the garden. Foxes wander around as though they own the place. Hedgehogs turn up occasionally. And mice occupy an important place in that little food chain.

The household remained unmoved.

A mouse, I was informed, is different.

Why?

“Because they come inside.”

It’s difficult to argue with that.

Then, a few days ago, I was sitting at my desk working on something for The Shepway Vox Team when the peace was shattered.

Sophie came charging in.

“WE’VE GOT ONE!”

Her excitement suggested she’d personally captured an international fugitive.

There was indeed a mouse.

A very small, very dead mouse.

I suggested we give the unfortunate creature a decent burial somewhere at the bottom of the garden.

Sophie looked at me as if I’d proposed a state funeral.

“It’s going in the bin.”

A short discussion followed.

The bin won.

Or at least everyone thought it had.

Later that evening, when nobody was looking, I retrieved the little fellow and buried him beneath a tree.

Yes, I know.

Soft old fool.

But there we are.

And I’ll confess something else.

On two occasions since, I’ve gone into the loft and deliberately sprung several of the traps.

My family currently believes we’ve acquired a remarkably intelligent mouse capable of stealing bait without being caught.

I haven’t corrected them.

Of course, mice inside houses can cause genuine problems. They chew things, contaminate food and have an alarming disregard for electrical wiring. Nobody sensible is suggesting they should be given the spare bedroom and added to the electoral register.

But living in the sticks does come with an unavoidable truth.

Nature gets in.

Spiders get in. Flies get in. Occasionally birds get in. Once, memorably, something got into one of our sheds that I still haven’t positively identified and have no great desire to meet again.

That’s country life.

So, as autumn approaches and Britain’s field mice begin studying the rural property pages for somewhere warm to spend Christmas, spare them a thought.

Seal the gaps. Put food into proper containers. Make your home considerably less attractive to them in the first place.

And if all else fails, perhaps consider a cat.

At least then the mouse gets a sporting chance.

Meanwhile, Operation Mousetrap continues in our house.

Twenty-seven traps remain deployed.

My partner and Sophie are confident.

Jack is keeping score.

And somewhere out there, I suspect, is one extremely confused mouse wondering why the cheese keeps disappearing and all the traps have mysteriously gone off before he gets there.

Long may he remain baffled.

The Shepway Vox Team

Standing Up For Mice