There’s a mouse in the house.
Usually I’m able to, uh, stop them at the garage. But this rodent rogue must have slipped by and darted into the kitchen while I scooped dog kibble in the mudroom .
I know it’s here because, as you know from your own disgusting experiences, this morning I detected the droppings left behind in his foraging of countertops and the pantry. Ugh.
After pulling jars, the turkey roaster pan and the rest of the seldom-used appliances from the pantry – and giving the shelves a good wiping down with ammonia – out came the mouse trap, now strategically tucked in a corner in the pantry, locked and ready. Mice can’t resist peanut butter.
Now you know me. I’m one of those soft-hearted guys who likes to believe all creatures somehow have the cognizance to recognize I’m not one of them average, run-of-the-mill cruel bastard humans. We can and should cohabitate. But don’t poop your way around my kitchen.