My parents buy old ramshackle victorian farmhouses and restore them to their former glory. They also breed Paso Fino horses. So when I was a child I always lived in houses that were in various states of decay. We never stayed long in a house that had been put back to rights, my parents were always looking for the next old dame to fix up. And because of the horses, I spent a great deal of time in barns. Mucking stalls, climbing on hay bales. So you would think, after having that kind of childhood, that I would not be adverse to mice.
Well, you would be wrong.
THERE IS A MOUSE IN MY HOUSE AND I'M FREAKING OUT!
I can hear it scurrying along the ceiling panels and honestly, if it falls through (because we are in the basement and they are those old thin ceiling panels) I will put a tent out in the snow and sleep outside. I cannot handle rodents falling through the celing.
Finn thinks this is all very funny, he's in the bedroom watching TV and laughing every time I screech that I can hear it scratching out my name in morse code. Apparently for a country girl, I ought to be ok with infestation. But I know from growing up in houses where we would move in and my Dad would take our jack russell (originally bred for rat killing) and stand in the dirt floor basements killing rats, that where there is one mouse, there are 50 of it's babies following behind it.
I am so grossed out right now.