Tooks McBlogovich

Well, thank goodness this beautiful woman is home again. Things really went to the dogs--and mice--without her. I did my best to clean, although the kitchen was a no-go because of the mousy menace. But she's taken a very proactive, even aggressive stance towards the in-pest-ation. Here's an example:

SHE: Where do you think it is?

ME: Well, as long as it stays there until I'm out of this room, I'm ok not knowing.

SHE: Oh, hush. Here, help me move the fridge.

ME: Are you nuts?! You're going to make it run out here, and then I'll be forced to scream, and nobody wants that.

SHE: You're absurd. What we need here is a little shock and awe. Hand me that broom. Do we have any smoke grenades?

So she's playing rodent Rumsfeld and I'm trying to give peace a chance. Don't get me wrong: I want this damn thing out of my house more than anyone. I'm just terrified of it, and want to have no contact with it whatsoever, be it manual, visual or spiritual. The main issue at the moment seems to be that the humane traps we're using are largely ineffectual. The mouse enters, eats the cheese (how very stereotypical), and exits at will. It's mocking me. I can almost hear it snickering as it gorges itself on cheap cheddar. So I'm giving it tonight to snare itself, or I will cease having a heart and begin having a vendetta. Consider yourself warned, Mickey. Clear out, 'cause come sunrise, this means war.

Watch _Rambo_ for inspiration with me,

TR