THE MOUSE LADY

That was my title several years ago when I lived in what is known as a luxury co-op in Manhattan.  Great apartment, building and cul-de-sac street. Except one night while relaxing in my bed reading a book, from the corner of my eye I noticed something dart across the carpet. Was there really something or was I imagining it? With considerable apprehension, I read with one eye and was on alert with the other. Tricky. And then I spotted it. A MOUSE! No I didn’t yell EEK! Though I think I had a brief anxiety attack as I scurried to the house phone and told the doorman he had better race up to my apartment and catch that little bugger which he finally and heroically did. But that was only the appetizer.

Over too many months, I discovered a multitude of its roommates – none of whom paid a dime toward the maintenance. In all the apartments I had occupied in this great city, I had never ever seen a mouse. An occasional roach, sure. Who doesn’t?  But mice? Never. Pretty soon I had a mouse invasion. When I informed the superintendent of this problem, he gave me his typically vapid look and claimed I was the only one in the building of almost thee hundred apartments who had mice!  I marveled that this army of mice had bypassed ten floors to invade my apartment. True, it was a nifty, thoroughly renovated apartment, but really! Of course the super had no explanation, but then, he was the only super I had ever encountered who, I think, didn’t know how to use a screwdriver.

He summoned the house exterminator who placed tented glue traps throughout the apartment.  In every corner, closet, kitchen counter, my bed. I jumped at any audible sound. I lost sleep. I think I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I lost count of how many mice were caught in those traps and I became immune to tossing them down the compactor. The worst incident occurred when I gingerly tiptoed from my bedroom to the kitchen in my typical morning stupor and saw one dash under the foyer area rug. What to do? How to catch it?  Summoning all my courage, I located the lump in the rug and, ugh, stepped on it. I felt like a serial killer and spent the entire day totally depressed. I couldn’t believe I had actually done that.

I then became a maven on mice – not an education for which I yearned. Did you know that two mice – obviously male and female – produce +/- eighty micelets annually? And once the nest has twenty or so, they pair off and migrate creating another nest and every pair again manufactures another eighty.  Incest is not a no no in their culture. It doesn’t take a fertility expert to determine that two cohabitating mice can overrun an entire building in just a few months – and do.

I shared this valuable information with the Board of Directors. Indifference best describes their reaction since they didn’t think they had mice. Hah! Friends were aghast that I hadn’t moved out. I even conducted a door-to-door survey of my neighbors to learn if any had mice. Oh yes they did.  One young woman told me her apartment was so overrun, they were in the kitchen and on her bed!  When she complained to the incompetent super he gave her the same answer.  She was the only one with mice.

Finally, my attorney son, fearing he would have to visit me at the local funny farm, came to my rescue. He wrote a letter to every resident in the building inquiring if any had mice. A resounding yes was the response from many and all agreed that nobody was doing nothing. We victims banded together and demanded action from the Board – all in vain.

The building manager, as incompetent as the super, told me that I must have holes in the walls behind my dishwasher, clothes washer, fridge and oven allowing the little buggers entrance.  His advice was to call the plumber and plug up the holes – of course at my cost. So the plumber arrived, moved all those appliances and guess what? We found not only several dead creatures but also gaping holes in the walls that those gnawers had made since they literally eat though plaster.

The saga continues. The building manages then had me call the co-op’s exterminator directly. I thought that was his job. So I spoke to the president of the company who was convinced I was a crazy old lady – crazy yes, old no – and he sent his vice president to inspect the premises. My sixth sense told me this was a Ma & Pa Exterminating Company and I was right on. The VP was the son who knew nothing about exterminating. 

Setting the stage, I left all those charming mouse drippings where they had been deposited the previous night. This very perceptive VP agreed and said they were fresh mouse poop. He didn’t have a clue what to do.

In case you are unaware, mouse droppings look like caraway seeds or bits of dirt so people who had them scattered around their apartments were oblivious to the fact that there were mice. An amusing incident occurred with my next-door power attorney who was a new resident and rarely home. One morning, visiting the compactor, I noticed one of his brand new air-conditioners lying on the corridor floor outside his door.  He emerged at that moment and when I asked what was wrong, he said there was a very peculiar odor and thought it was coming from the machine so it was being taken to the repair shop.  I simply said: “Mice. " He said he had never seen any so I repeated “Mice.” He was obviously in denial. Unsurprisingly it turn out that he had dead mice in his walls emitting that unpleasant fragrance.  I found no solace in being right.

Finally, my son wrote yet another letter with a variety of evil legal threats to the Board. They finally succumbed and brought in a professional exterminating company to conduct an extensive inspection of the building.  Their report stated unequivically that the building was totally infested. My son and I attended that momentous meeting with the board members, the new exterminator, incompetent building manager and idiot super and. just as we were about to sit down, up popped a mouse.  It couldn’t have been better staged. And no, I didn’t bring it.

Coda: The Board retained the new exterminating company and I was thereafter known as The Mouse Lady, a title I had not coveted.