I’m deep in the throws of a cold war and my enemy is a mouse. His name is not Micky.
This morning I woke up to a frozen house, only to discover a mouse or possibly mice came in for some warmth. They have a habit of nestling into the kitchen towel drawer. I can’t really blame them. It is the perfect place to settle down for a long winter’s night; however, my sympathy only runs so deep.
I freaked out, yelling about mice and not even drinking my cup of decaf coffee yet, and then I opened the next drawer. Mr. Mouse chewed through the plastic top on the my can of cocoa.
I understand the need for a hit of chocolate.
My love for the stuff boarders on addiction, but I don’t share with my mice. Heck, I even hide chocolate from my kids. Share and share alike does not apply to anything that comes in dark and milk chocolate varieties.
And so the battle wages on.
I scooped up the pile of soiled dish towels and took them over to the washer. when I poured in the laundry detergent, it fell out in thick globs. Yup. It was cold.
When your laundry soap is next-to-near frozen, it’s time to move south and leave the house to the mice.
Now I am alternating between feelings of being completely grossed out and mad. I mean, we’ve only had a few months of mouse free living. When will these vermin learn that there’s no room in the inn?
So I march on to battle, but not alone. I drafted FringeMan into my army and he’s in charge of all tactical moves. The plan is total annihilation. When it comes to mice, I don’t have a heart. Sorry if that offends you.
Wish us luck.
For more mouse-capade reading, check out the following links.