Our garden has seen better days. Between the birds, the earwigs, the slugs and, get this, the MICE, the multitude of seeds we have planted have reaped us little. Our spring crop consists of a few green onions, several pinches of cilantro, and a dozen or so carrots and pea plants that are holding up.
After a failed trip over a month ago in which we almost bought a couple of kitties to raise up as mouse-murderers (our kids still hate me for making the executive decision), Tim spent hours scouring the internet for every mouse trap known to man. Turns out the most basic, snap mousetrap works best for us. We've killed at least 15 in the past few weeks. We even have a little plot dedicated to them in the common area behind our property. Every morning, Rachel satisfies her curiosity by sneaking outside, barefoot and freezing, to count the previous night's kills. It's only slightly disgusting. Especially when those suckers are caught, eyes glazed over, right in the middle of our (12 inch high, mind you) garden beds. I hate them buggers.
If some of you readers are a bit disturbed by my apathy towards a small life such as this, I'm sorry. Anything that breeds every two to three weeks has got to be stopped. God may notice the sparrow that falls, but I'm pretty confident mice didn't make the cut.
On a happier note, this year proves to yield the grandest strawberry harvest ever and we even captured a glimpse of several peaches-to-be on one of the trees we planted last year out back. So, if I can't make a salad without heading to the store, at least there's jam in our future.
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