Fievel Mousekewitz and friends have inhabited Home Sweet Home for roughly one month. They generally only appear when I am home alone. You would think that since I was basically raised by a single mother, I'd go all Rosie the Riveter on their spindley tails, rolling up my sleeves and flailing around with broom, "Git on out my house!" But no. I've been stranding myself on the Island of Futon, quaking and crying until Lovey Loverpants returns and gives me safe passage downstairs where I will run with bare feet like I am dodging hot lava to the Island of Bed where I will sleep uncomfortably, awakened by paranoid thoughts and the need to pee and the sound of mice scampering up and down the chutes of our walls. This morning, I awoke to the sound of my alarm and immediately I heard another sound. It was the desperate screeches of a mouse surely caught in a sticky trap. After weeks of leaving a strategic trails of these inhumane mats of death, I had always awoken disappointed, having hoped for a veritable mouse triage in the morning, and finding nothing. These ghetto mice were too smart. Until. Until Lovey changed the arrangement of the mouse minefield. Pullin' the ol' switcheroo.
I nudged Lovey, "Hey, do you hear that screeching? I think you caught a mouse."
He starts to unravel himself from the sheets. "Time to go make a meat popsicle out of this mouse."
"Lovey, use gloves!" I cry.
Several minutes later, he returns to bed.
"No Coldstone for you," he says, after placing the mouse, still attached to the trap, into our freezer.