mouse turd and murder
Okay. I've been trying hard to take the very good advise of Thumper's mother to heart and "if you can't say something nice, then Shhhhhh! say nothing." And that's all well and good, but I've come to the realization that that's leading to one very silent and empty blog and well, I'm paying for this sucker and I may as well make some use out of it, right? I should at very least let you know I'm alive.
Which is more than I can say for the teeming mouse population that took over our garage sometime this winter. O! Poor stupid, o-so-misguided mice. I'm sure they were lured in by my December topper with the pink eyed zombie mouse clutching an acorn. (Remember that? I was going to post it again, but it makes me feel too guiltridden at the moment.) I'm sure they thought they'd just snuggle down behind my paint cans and bags of potting soil and make mad passionate baby making love all day and all night and I'd be out there every waking moment with little wooly garments I'd knitted for them, all sorts of cake and cookies and mousey good bits and that I'd choreograph complicated and priceless dance routines and teach them how to sing so that when spring arrived, they'd be all plump and sleek and well armed with the necessary performance skills to get them top paid roles in various Disney and Pixar movies. I'm sure that's what they thought.
But alas... what they didn't realize is that winter has wizened my heart to a gnarled, impenetrable lump of cold and mean and instead of going all Cinderella on them, I contracted out a killer. O! The guilt! It's roiling in my gut like a feast of samonella sausage. O! O! O! Poor, poor mice! I might never enter that garage/chamber of rodent death again in my life!
But it was us or them, you know? I couldn't have them taking over my house and giving my darling doggity hantavirus or whatever. And I tried, but I just couldn't convince Jack to dress up like the Pied Piper of Hamelin and pipe them off to the park where they could spend their days dodging hungry hawks and fox. It's the tights, see. Jack just does not do tights. And forget about the dorky hat and curly toed shoes. Just not going to happen.
Forgive me world for I am an evil wretched thing.