I thought I'd gotten enough Authentic New York Apartment Experience by spotting a 2am cockroach every four months or so, but I guess not.
Get this: it's broad daylight, I have a plastic clampy mousetrap all laid out with delicious aged cheddar. I hear whiskering, nibbling noises. Mouse is probing the cheese. Is clearly not mouse's first time at the mousetrap rodeo. Mouse eventually succeeds at entirely knocking the cheese off the trap. The mousetrap hears nothing, feels nothing. The mousetrap sleeps the sleep of the dead. Now does the mouse grab the cheese and make for the exit? No! It grabs the trap by the side, still without triggering it. Leave the cannoli; take the gun. Why? Not sure.
It scurries under the oven, trap in tow, and I hear a snap.
I move the fridge aside and fish out the mousetrap with a denuded swiffer-handle that had been collecting dust in the front closet. No mouse.
I'm nearly forced to conclude the little fucker just took the trap to communicate a certain message to me in the only way it could, considering that its diminutive middle digits would be effectively invisible.
The trap has been rebaited with cheese, glued loosely to the trigger with sunflower-seed butter to make the same gambit at least a little more costly. I wait.
Ohhhh nooo my bloodlessly competitive "oh, that little fucker" attitude is not intact after being woken up at 11:15 by stomach-turning squealing. Oof. Ugh. This part is not like cockroaches, either.
There's not a mouse in my apartment, now. Or at least there's a mouse not in my apartment.