As a whole, I have a warm fuzzy fondness for the order rodentia. Bunnies and guinea pigs melt my heart, and who can hate prairie dogs? Standing there on their little mounds of dirt, yelling at each other in short sharp chirps. It’s frickin adorbs!
But there is a line that must not be crossed; A simple rule that, if broken, will cause a bitter conflict to ensue.
Imagine my surprise and disgust when, two weeks ago, I realized that this rule had been broken. A pair of tiny grey poop machines were making use of my cupboards in a most unseemly fashion. Their little false chocolate sprinkles were peppering my pots and pans. I use those. And not for what those dirty toed cat morsels were.
This, of course, meant war. I tried to employ Azula, my cat, to dispatch the offenders, but it turns out that being your own cousin has its downsides.
So I set traps. Within hours, I found an unusually large and very dead mouse with his face smashed into the dab of peanut butter I’d used as bait.
But there was still one left. So I reset the trap and waited. Yet again, within hours, I heard a sharp snap. Upon further investigation, I found that the trap had sprung, but it was empty. And the peanut butter was gone.
Since then, I’ve been scheming and searching for new ways to bring about the survivor’s demise. He’s a steely little devil. My threats and taunts fail to lure him out.
I can only assume that he’s biding his time. Waiting for my guard to go down so he can put his dirty little feet in my favorite cereal bowl, poisoning me. Once I’m out of the picture, he’ll have free range to poop on all of my stuff. I must remain vigilant.