Note: Cincinnati got cold crushed by a pretty massive power outage. 70 mph winds and this town apparently don't mix. I have power now (obviously), but there are plenty of people who do not.
Clearly, Mrs. Nutmeg thinks that the extermination business runs a bit like Mouse Trap. Like...it'd be cool if Heathcliff set up some Rube Goldberg machine to catch the mice he could clearly devour at any minute, but playing whack-a-mole with their giant, mutated heads is likely as effective, and it cuts down on the number of anvils and wooden ships you have to keep around the house.
Heathcliff is asleep.
Heathcliff's head has migrated to where his front paws were. His breath isn't so bad because he's now unable to breathe. Such is life.