You know what’s really cool about finding a mouse in your house?

Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zip. Niente — that would be Italian for nuttin’.

I know, I know. People think mice are cute. You know, because they’re all furry and fuzzy and squeaky.

Hmpf.

Plus, they’ve got those adorably oversized ears and whatnot, I suppose.

Meh.

I mean, a smartly dressed mouse and his equally well-attired sweetie are even the internationally beloved mascots for the happiest place on earth, for Pete’s sake.

Ding dang it, Pete! Because, let me tell you a little somethin’ somethin’ about finding mouse markers in your muffin pans, my pals: They bear absolutely NO resemblance to Mickey or Minnie.

Or even Jerry of “Tom and” fame, a’ight?

Because when I opened the silverware drawer to find peanut shell bits and teeny tiny droppings, a la Stuart Little, I must admit that my casa was suddenly the UNHAPPIEST place on earth, okay? AAAAAACCCCCCKKK!” I screamed aloud.

After all, that sort of dirty discovery demands a decidedly disgusted discharge, you dig?

Come on, just, EWWWWWWWWWW.

BT dubs, that’s an entirely appropriate response to finding feces in my forks!

YUCK.

“Oh, there’s crap in my crock pot!” I groaned, scrutinizing every cabinet, crevice and corner of my kitchen.

Slowly but surely, I found more and more signs that both Pinky AND the Brain had been prancing through my pantry, yo.

I started literally gagging, as in, with a spoon … like, totally to the max. #IMissThe80s. Because, suddenly my spoons, knives and everything even remotely located near any potential Chuck E. Cheese chips needed chucked.

“I am so disgusted!” I grumbled after finding the Desperaux dung deposited in my drawers.

And then it started. The full-on freak out. I knew I had no choice but to start scrubbing, scouring and sanitizing STAT. The very thought of keeping anything ruined by Reepicheep rattled me right into an expulsion explosion.

I flung into mad flurry, pulling out everything, and I mean everything, from each and every nook and cranny in the kitchen.

In no time, the tile dissolved beneath a sea of stuff: pots and pans and lids and containers and skillets and plates and mugs and cookbooks and, um, Pyrex et al.

I found things I’d forgotten I had. Wedding gifts that I’d never used. Pristine platters. Unwrapped utensils. Sealed sacks of sugar.

I got out the garden hose and hooked it up to a 874-gallon drum of Lysol. I warned the boys to stay away and began spraying. Everything. Twice.

Then came the really horrid part: the setting of the mouse traps.

Oh, yes. Detest them as I do, the thought of killing things, even dirty things that carry bacteria and germs and, you know, bits of pasta from someone’s garbage can, well, it got to me. What if I accidentally slayed Mickey’s second cousin, 9,481 times removed??

But all that flies out the window when you find more droppings in your favorite mug, man. So we set ’em. And began the daily morning game of: “Is there anything dead in the kitchen today?”

The only bad things about that fun little indoor sport? That you won’t find anything.

Or that you will. HARD GULP.

After eight consecutive days of being held hostage, I think we are finally in the clear.

Two tiny fallen soldiers to report.

BLECHHHHHHHHHHHH.

With apologies to Fievel, Gus and of course, Angelina Ballerina, I beg y’all: Stay outside already! I promise to put out extra pasta, capisce?

• Kimerer is a columnist who just wants rid of rodents, right? Contact her www.patricia kimerer.com.