I’d caught a fleeting glimpse of him now and then, but never enough to be sure I was seeing what I was seeing, though the circumstantial evidence was sufficiently strong. (As Trini once discovered to her discomfiture, mice will in fact go on your mouse pad.)
Then I withdrew a temporary trash bag from the box I was using for support, and visual confirmation was immediate, albeit short-lived: the furry little sumbitch held on just long enough for me to see him, and then performed a half-gainer to propel himself behind the nearest article of furniture. I marveled at his gymnastic ability, and then vowed revenge.
Traditionalist that I am, I had a couple of standard spring-loaded traps on hand; I tested one, found it presumably satisfactory, loaded it with a dollop of Jif, placed it near one of his favorite haunts, and went to bed.
Next morning, I found the trap, untripped, three and a half feet away from where I’d parked it, and the bait cleaned away with considerable efficiency. Hardware malfunction? I poked it with a Bic pen, and SNAP!
I’m starting to think that meeces (whom I hate to pieces) have evolved to the point where they’re too smart for these primitive attacks on their, um, person.