Every year around this time we get mice in our house. We have an older home out in the country and mice seem to go with the territory. So every year we set out traps (classic snap traps - I am not a catch-and-release type of woman), kill the buggers and then poke around trying to find the entry point. If we find one we seal it and then hold our breath until next fall. Or rather I hold my breath. My husband always seems to think we've solved the problem.
We haven't yet. The last few nights I've been either sleeping on the couch or lying awake in bed because it seems the wall just behind our bed has become a mouse highway. It's not constant but every once and awhile there's the scritching and scratching of little mice feet running behind the gyprock. Of course, my husband doesn't hear it because he can sleep through canon barrages and so he thinks I'm "hearing things," and he dismisses my concerns because he fixed the problem last fall. I insist we have mice. He insists I'm crazy.
Today I opened a kitchen drawer and found the proof I needed. A tiny but immediately recognizable mouse poop. YES. Bless your bowels little mouse.
Victory, thy name is mouse poop.
Let the killing begin.
Excuse me. I have to do some disinfecting now.