Dust Bunny Dilemma: a story of mice

It's hard to know how long it took
 It wasn't until the warm spring air arrived and it was time to exchange our bulky coats, gloves, and hats for lighter jackets and longer days that I had any inkling something had been happening.

On my first trip into the attic, my eye caught the bright orange draft snake on the floor just inside the door. Something was different, but I wasn't sure what.

Was that a dust bunny on the left end of the draft snake?

I wasn't surprised at the sight of it, it had been a long winter and trips to the attic were few.

On my second trip, I saw another, right in the center of the long tube.

Once again, with arms laden with winter wool, I stepped over it. But something wasn't right.

When I came down from the attic the second time, I bent over to take a closer look.

It wasn't one dust bunny, or two ... there were holes in the fabric. The finely shredded threads feathering the edge of the holes had tricked me.

The tube, still holding its shape, was empty ... of the hundreds (or more likely thousands) of split peas I'd poured into the tube to stop the draft.

One, two, or more(?) mice had chewed through one end of the draft snake to get at the peas.

Once they reached the middle, they chewed another hole. Less time in the tube, more time for removing the peas.

But where to? How long did it take?

Did they eat them? Share them? Hoard them?

It remains a mystery. There were no split peas to be seen or found. Not one. Anywhere. And no mice. We never saw them, found mouse droppings, or heard them ... quiet as a mouse.

Until we set a trap.