I was minding my own business, typing up a story for the Northshore Journal at my usual spot at the kitchen counter (once our bar is done, I’m moving in there), when out of the corner of my eye I caught a tiny flicker of movement. I ignored it for a split second, the way you do when you hope your imagination is playing tricks on you, until I saw it again.
I looked down just in time to watch a terrible little varmint sprint straight at me, then under me, then under the dishwasher, and finally under the stove. Meanwhile, I’m yelling my husband’s name like the house is on fire, and both he and the dog come running.
It reminded me of the last time we had an unexpected houseguest. We had that one cornered, and my husband told me to run and grab something. I came back with a broom, and he snickered (rudely, I might add) and said it seemed like the kind of thing a woman would grab in a cartoon. Well, yes. That’s exactly why I grabbed a broom. It’s what they do in the cartoons.
This time, whatever it was disappeared so fast I could only narrow it down to two horrifying options: a shrew or, worse, a baby mouse.
Before we even confirmed what the thing was, we went into full crisis-cleaning mode. The pantry was emptied, wiped down, and reorganized like we were prepping for a home inspection. Every crumb that could possibly appeal to a rodent was hunted down and eliminated.
The dog’s food dish no longer lives on the floor when he’s not actively eating, and his treats are now stored in containers with lids that could probably survive a tornado. If something was thinking about setting up shop, we wanted to make it abundantly clear that this was not the place.
Meanwhile, we hoped and hoped the intruder was a shrew and not the alternative.
Shrews aren’t actually rodents at all. They’re tiny, frantic insectivores who burn energy like they’re training for a marathon. They don’t raid pantries, they don’t settle in for the winter, and they don’t invite their cousins over. If a shrew gets inside, it’s usually by accident and usually because it’s cold.
A mouse, on the other hand, is a whole different situation. A mouse means checking every corner of the house for droppings, wondering how many friends it brought with, and Googling things you don’t want to Google at 11 p.m. A mouse is a commitment. A shrew is a drive-by.
So yes, in the hierarchy of “things that should not be running across your kitchen floor,” a shrew is the best-case scenario. Fast, chaotic, and gone before you can fully process what you saw.
Once the adrenaline wore off and the pantry reached a level of organization it has never known, we did what every Minnesotan eventually does: we admitted that winter isn’t just cold, it’s an open invitation for anything small, furry, and determined to come inside. The trick is making your house just inconvenient enough that they decide to bother someone else.
That starts with sealing the gaps you don’t think matter. If cold air can sneak in, a mouse or shrew can too. Mice only need a gap about the width of a pencil, and shrews need even less. Places to check include where siding meets the foundation, gaps around pipes and utility lines, worn weatherstripping on exterior doors, and that suspicious space under the garage door.
Minnesota homes shift, swell, and shrink with the seasons. Door sweeps warp, caulk cracks, and windows stop sealing tightly. A half hour with a tube of caulk or a new door sweep solves more winter rodent problems than people realize.
It also helps to store food as if you live with raccoons. Even without signs of a mouse, sealed containers go a long way. Rodents follow scent trails. Remove the scent, and you remove the interest.
Other tips include moving firewood away from the house (stacking it against siding is basically a rodent apartment complex), decluttering quiet corners in basements and garages, and trimming shrubs or branches that touch the house. Mice can climb, and anything brushing up against your home can become a bridge.
Of course, you can do everything right and still get a visitor. That’s just northern living. But sealing, storing, and tidying dramatically lowers the odds and helps keep the shrews accidental and the mice nonexistent.
In the end, we did find out what it was, or rather, the sticky trap did. RIP to the shrew, who met his fate before we ever saw him again. Not the ending I was hoping for, but that’s winter in Minnesota. You seal the gaps, store the food, tidy the corners, and do your best. And sometimes, despite all that, a tiny creature still beats you to the punch.
