The first time I saw the mice scatter in the backyard, I knew Chloe’s decree was absolute: “No mouse in Chloe’s house!” The woodpile in the far corner of our property had become a bustling metropolis for them.
We couldn’t bear the thought of snap traps or poison. So, we built the "bucket."
It's a simple thing: a five-gallon plastic pail, a mouse size staircase, and a cleverly balanced lid over the top, baited with a piece of cheese.
The principle is elegant. A mouse would climb the stair, drawn by the scent, where its weight on the tilting lid would be its undoing. A gentle, pivoting plunge into the empty bucket below. A capture without a scream!
To our amazement, we caught one that first night. It’s tiny, frantic scratching against the smooth plastic walls was a sound of pure, trapped panic!
After taping down the lid's edges, I secured the mouse for the journey in my car. I’d drive him five miles out, to the edge of the open mesa.
There, I removed the lid and tipped the bucket gently, allowing the mouse to dash into the underbrush, vanishing into freedom!
One, sometimes two!
Chloe and I started to recognize patterns. A bold, sleek one with a nick in its ear. A smaller, skittish one that always seemed to tremble. We quietly named them, Nick, Twitch. It made it easier, somehow.
By the time we had caught the twelfth one, the scratching in the bucket had become a familiar, almost expected sound from these tiny creatures.
“No mouse in Chloe's House!” I whispered.
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