Of dogs, food and appetite

Yesterday afternoon, I heard a squeaky door. Since we have none, this sound usually indicates that a frustrated mouse is in a glue trap somewhere in the house. The sound grew more distinct near a sideboard in the dining room. Our resident old-lady-dog grew most interested. I moved a heavy storage bin in front of the furniture to give mr. mouse a modicum of privacy until I could hustle dogs out and then release the little guy across the street.

The boys complied. The old lady had other ideas. The squeaking grew louder momentarily as I turned from the back door. By the time I had retraced those few steps, she had already moved the heavy bin out of the way and eaten most of the mouse. Rest in peace, Squeaker.

Then she realized her pad was stuck; a glue trap dangled from one toe pad. Now, Queen Ellie is not one to mope quietly. She'll come straight to her humans with any discomfort. Accordingly, she planted her paw squarely in the center of the glue trap and padded her way to the living room, where I had retreated with my tween daughters.

Pad, slip. Pad, slip. Click, shoosh. Click, shoosh. Initially, the girls were amused at her predicament, until we spotted a bit of the mouse tail and some entrails at one end of the now firmly stuck trap.

Grossness.

Girls climbed onto sofa backs. If we had curtains, I believe they would have scaled them. I sighed and walked with Ellie to the kitchen where I found that vegetable oil over the paw and onto the trap actually did help slightly! Yay! As in, the mouse parts flipped off of the trap and onto my floor when I attempted to pull trap from paw. Ugh.

Click-shoosh-click-shoosh as she old-lady-speed-walked away from me, dripping vegetable oil all over the wooden floors in the hallway and living room. "It's okay; there's no more mouse parts on it" I called in response to the heightened sounds of distress from the living room. Somehow, that didn't calm my daughters much.

Grabbing a dish towel, I stooped to pick up the pink strings on my kitchen floor. They wouldn't fall off of the towel when I tried to shake it into the garbage. Oh, ew. REALLY?! The glue, of course. Fine. The towel isn't needed anyway.​ Into the garbage it went.

Then I spied a shape on the dining room floor. Apparently, Ellie had not in fact eaten all of the mouse. A dark lump of indeterminate mass remained. I think. I want. to be sick. Without hesitation, another kitchen towel was immediately sacrificed. Who needs towels?

Hiding queasiness behind mom face, I head to the dog, oil bottle in hand. She laps up the stuff I'm dribbling onto her paw happily until I try to pull the trap again. Clickshooshclickshooshclickshoosh. Vegetable oil starts to puddle under furniture legs.

Grrr. Fine. "Outside?" I ask. She happily obliges. Clickshooshclickshoosh splat! scrabble. Clickshooshclickshoosh. There's now a dog shaped oil imprint on my wooden floor. 

Once she's safely on the back porch, I dump three quarters of the remaining vegetable oil on her paw and close the door on her. 

Ever tried to clean vegetable oil from wood floors? It just soaks in. The kitchen floor is worse. The dogs go skidding across various spots even after I mopped it up. And there, finally, is Ellie coming in, the trap once again dangling precariously from one toe pad. I lunge and reach it *just* a moment before she plants her paw firmly in the center again. I placed the trap neatly on top of the kitchen towels in the garbage bag, and retreated upstairs for the rest of the evening with my daughters.

We all agreed we'd likely have little appetite for the next few days.

Such are the adventures in West Virginia.