It happened most every spring. It started slowly and then took off like a brigade – an ant brigade. No matter what I did, they’d march into my house, across my dining room, into my kitchen, over my counters and quite honestly – they pissed me off, royally.

I tried everything to rid myself of the army onslaught. I strategically placed ant hotels – but they just enjoyed the stay. I researched ‘environmental’ and non-toxic ways to rid my home of the little warriors. I read hundreds of online suggestions and tried just about every one.

Someone suggested chalk. So I drew on my counters and walls where I saw the prancing army. Their inner GPS just re-calculated their direction. I sprayed them down with vinegar and water but they just enjoyed the swim. Glue ant traps only got my fingers stuck. Even worse, I imagined my cats stepping on the glue and all hell breaking loose.  So I tossed the traps immediately.

“Sprinkle cinnamon,” a friend said. But the ants only scurried away briefly.  And even though my house smelled nice, the floorboards looked like I’d swept dirt against the wall and into corners – yes, a chic dirt wood-floor look.

So frustrated and tired, I got an exterminator. I wasn’t happy about the chemicals even though the exterminator assured me they “were safe.” It was my last straw. I was tired. I was beaten. I was losing – to an army of ants. But it’s been two years now – and no spring houseguests.

Only now its Fall and as much as I love sleeping with a little chill in the night air, it seems field mice don’t. So I sit here and wonder if I’m on their hotel list this year. I hosted these seasonal guests two years ago. I can remember watching one dash across the living room floor with my cat in hot pursuit as I watched late night TV. And one day while working at my computer I heard one scurry under the refrigerator.

Although I feared the mice more than the ants, it was harder for me to consider a  mass murder of mice than that of the ant army – squashing them, swatting them, spraying them and wiping them out. I felt a little sympathy for the mice. After all, with the drop in temperatures outside they were just trying to stay warm.

“How many mice are in the house?” a friend asked, trying to help me deal with the little ones. “How should I know?” I replied. “They don’t wear name tags.” But no matter how many there were I feared the day my cats would catch their ‘little toys.’  I wasn’t looking forward to being on the recipient end of my cat’s gifts on my bed.

So first I tried ‘humane traps.’ Each morning I’d wake up and cautiously check the trap.  I was torn between wanting and not really wanting to find a mouse. Each morning the trap was empty.  It seemed the mice were familiar with that game.  But when one ran across my stove – the gloves came off. There was something about them being near my food prep / cook area that pushed me over the line.

I upped the ante. I got an real trap – inhumane, yes. Having read online that mice liked peanut butter I put a large dollop of organic peanut butter in the trap.  It eased my mind a little knowing that the poor unsuspecting mice would at least enjoy their last meal.  But still I felt a little guilty.

The next day I awoke to check the trap. Outside the trap door was tell-tale black rice, mice poop. But when I opened the trap there was no mouse – and no peanut butter. I was livid imagining that the mouse was having a good laugh at my expense. It had eaten the organic peanut butter and pooped by the door, basically telling me to go fu*k myself.

Realizing that I was dealing with a formidable opponent I tried one more angle – plug in devices that emit a sound the mice don’t like. Even though it said that we couldn’t hear it, I could.  But I didn’t care.  That was the last I heard from the mice.  It seemed too easy.  But it worked.  All was quiet – and stayed quiet.

A few weeks later I saw an exterminator truck driving down the block. I watched as it parked and the man waked up to my next door neighbor’s house. I guess the mice found a new home. Maybe the ants did too.

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