I hate the meeces to pieces...
A couple of weeks ago Michael was cleaning the pantry because we have seven years of crap to separate and he’s more organized than I. He was pulling some stuff out from the floor (coolers, ice buckets, fifty million “Go Heels!” plastic cups) and there were little black pebbly looking things in the bottom. Being a calm, rational, and laid-back fellow, Michael said, “uh oh.” Since I am not calm, rational, or laid-back, I shrieked like a panicked five-year-old. Hysteria ensued.
Me: “Is that MOUSE DOODIE?”
Him: “It might be.”
“It could be getting in through that space behind the fridge.”
“But the exterminator comes once a month!!”
“Yes, he does. For bugs.”
“How do I get rid of it?”
“There’s bait that makes them thirsty and they have to go outside for water.”
“But then it will come back in! Or drink the water in Miss Kitty’s bowl!”
“I don’t know how the bait works. It makes them go away.”
“I want it DEAD!”
[pulling a box of batteries and candles from our emergency shelf] “Looks like he’s been here too.”
“That’s it. I’m buying a gun.”
Yes, that is rational thinking for me. Yes, would kill a mouse given the opportunity. Yes, I know it is absurd. In my defense, I am a really good shot. However, I probably would not be able to hit a mouse .
So instead of allowing me to play small game hunter indoors, Michael checked all of the baseboards and put a new one behind the fridge where it looked like our furry friend had access. And there have been no signs of critter visitation since. I have been discussing part-time employment with The Cat, just to be on the safe side, but since I haven’t mastered Russian and she’s dumb as a box of soap flakes, it’s taking longer than I thought.