Here I come to save the day!

Ewww. EWWWWWWW! So, to top off my incredible week of fun in the sun (read: woebegone depression), I made a tremendous discovery: I have mice. Well, A mouse, to be exact. And not the cute fuzzy kind you get at the pet store. No, no. The hulking, plague-ridden kind that like to eat ham sandwiches in one bite. At least that's what his droppings made me believe.

So I did the prudent thing. What any sane, rational person would do. I called in the heavy artillery. Bloodless traps? No thanks. Those sticky things that leaves him unharmed and with the ability to bite me while I attempt to transport his bubonic ass to a lovely dumpster that is more amenable to his discriminating sensibilities? Forget that shit. Hello D-Con!

Yes, I'm a murderer. You all should have seen it coming. I have no room for a mouse in my house. I'm already the proud owner of a dog I never wanted, who is quickly and furiously eating me out of house and home. One pest is all I can stand to board for the time being, thank you.

So I laid my trap. He was quite fond of my utensil drawer, which seems odd, because there is no food in there. Unless.... I need a new dishwasher. Dammit!. Anyway, I took this rather small box of green pellets that assured me of a quick and painless death. Frankly, I would have settled for drawn out and horrifically painful, but you takes whats you can gets when you gets it. So the trap was laid.

First night, nothing. No mouse. Not one little morsel of delicious poison was disturbed. This guy is good. I'm going to have to be ultra tricky to wrangle this little bastard.

So night two comes. I decide to up the ante, and next to the Box-O-Death® I place a small dollop of peanut butter. I eschewed the cheese, because I assume he is aware of our simple cartoon antics, and is already prepared for that. Well, guess what? Curveball, mother fucker! I went to bed squeamish and uneasy, yet content in my trickery.

I awoke the next morning, leaped out of bed and ran down the stairs with all the vigor of a 7 year old on Christmas morning. I dashed into the kitchen to see whether my little ruse had worked. I slowly opened the drawer, half expecting him to be sitting there, licking his chops and looking for more peanut butter like Floyd does. But much to my relief, he wasn't. However, there was no peanut butter blob. It was gone! And in my haste to look for the peanut butter, I almost didn't notice that the poison had been dug into. He even had time to take a shit in the box.


YES! Check-mother fucking-mate, bitch!


But now, I had a problem. Where was he? Sure, he ate the stuff. But I was expecting that shit to be instantaneous. Eat one bite, BOOM! Dead mouse. It worked like that on Bartlett's (my neighbor) cat anyway (I'm kidding! Just kidding. No angry emails, please.). But I looked around the drawer; no mouse to be found.

So now I'm worried. Because there are only two options for what happened.

One: He ate the poison, crawled back into the wall, and died a dignified death, worthy of Shakespeare. So tell him, with th' occurrents, more and less, Which have solicited- the rest is silence.









Or Two: This mouse is now plotting his revenge as I have not killed him, so much as I have made him incredibly mad and also, impervious to any poisons we as humans can conjure up. Think Teenage Mutant Ninja Vermin. I like this idea somewhat, as long as he treats me as wise old Splinter (which would be appropos, as Splinter was a rat), and not the evil Shredder. I would very much like for him not to kill me in my sleep, basically is all I'm saying. So, mouse, if that is your real name, this is my plaintive plea to you:

If you are in fact dead, may your tiny, disease infested soul rest in peace.

If, in fact, you are now a super mouse, hell bent on world domination, I suggest you start over at Bartlett's house. He has a snake. He feeds your brethren to it. I've seen it with my own eyes. Up the stairs, to the left, first door. Go get him! The key is under the mat, but with your (now) super strength, it shouldn't be much of a problem for you.







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Edited on March 28th at 12:00 EDT.

One of my lovely and most loyal readers, Whimsicalsun, brought up the point in the comments section that perhaps I should take more humane measures, and get a cat. How having a cat catch the mouse and then rip it to shreds and leave it at my bedroom door is more humane, I'm not quite sure.

However, I must say, I do have a cat. Her name is Otis. She is 10 years old. She is currently not living with me, as I have inherited the spawn of Satan, otherwise known as Floyd. She is a great mouse catcher. And I would love to employ her natural abilities, but circumstances don't allow for that at this point in time. Floyd would kill her, and that's all there is to say. He even told me he would.






This is my darling Otis, who is also my usual designated mousecatcher. Please ignore the flowered bedspread. It is not mine.

So, unless any of you are interested in a slightly hyperactive, moderately stupid 4 year old Jack Russell Terrier named Floyd, Otis will remain in isolation. If you are interested in him, please contact me directly. My email is available through my profile page. Only serious inquiries, please. Act now and get a half box of uneaten Girl Scout Cookies thrown in at no extra charge!