I know you were here, you left the evidence all over the kitchen counter, you disgusting creature. You ignore the treats I leave out for you and feast instead on some invisible spot of grease I neglected to scrub away.
I can’t clean anymore. My hands are shriveled prunes. The smell of bleach is overwhelming but it doesn’t seem to bother your supposedly sensitive nose in the slightest.
Your twitching whiskers mock me. Your presence is a slight on my sense of cleanliness. Your continued appearances reflect some default in my housekeeping abilities.
You lurk beneath the stove, waiting for me to go away. Well, too bad. I’ll wait here all night if I have to. Still and silent. Patiently waiting. I have a trap and I am not afraid to use it.
I hate you, mouse.
I blame the movie “The Secrets of NIMH.” That movie taught me that mice are smart and crafty, especially the recipients of super-smart potion. Or were they rats? I don’t actually remember the plot. How about Cinderella. That woman had a thing for clever rodents.
I don’t have an infestation of mice, plural; it is only one mouse. And I swear he knows what a trap is. Three years ago, I had a different mouse, very small and gray, he emerged most often from the closet and fell victim to the trap almost immediately.
This one is plump, a sign of his success. He is white and tan, looking more like someone’s escaped pet than a wild creature. He is not afraid of me.
He is NOT AFRAID of me! ARG!
Well, I’ve got the stove surrounded now, mister mouse. A trap at every door. Steal-wool like barbed wire stuffed in every crevice, even the ones too small for your roly-poly shape.
Just try to get into my kitchen now. Just try. Seriously. Now would be good. It’s late and I’ve really go to go to bed.
Yes – I’m aware of the irony, considering my blog name – don’t rub it in.