So you may have heard about the mouse in our place. Before we went to Rhode Island, he stealthily wound his way between the walls, disturbing no one, and rarely drawing any attention to himself at all. But during the time we were gone, he must have become accustomed to having the run of the place all to himself. And now, well, now he doesn't want to give it back, that little bastard. He's been making bolder moves every day, scurrying out into plain view and looking right at us, as if to say, "Well, what do you intend to do about it?" I wanted to buy a humanitarian trap at OSH, but the smallest ones they had were for squirrels, and they were thirty dollars. For that price, I could buy thirty feeder mice at the pet shop and set them free in Clover Park--way more gratification than sparing the life of this one, little, gray mouse. So I got a different trap, called the "Black Hole," instead. What I didn't realize at the time was that the "Black Hole" was actually going to turn out to be more brutal than I could have imagined. I'll just say that the device doing the dirty work is called a "cable noose." Apparently, the trap is intended for gophers and rats, and would probably snap the head clean off a mouse. I, of course, not being versed in the field of Mice v. Rat studies (never having lived in New York), was acting with the best of intentions. After Adam set up the trap and filled it with sunflower seeds, I kept looking at it and thinking of the poor little mousie (with his tiny tail sticking out of the trap); passed on, no more. Sensing my discomfort, Adam suggested we remove the trap and order a humanitarian one online. It seemed like a great idea.

And what do my humanitarian instincts get me? A ruined box of thirty dollar chocolates and a couch full of freakin' rat turds. All things in the back room are profaned to me now, since the blasted mouse got into my Christmas gifts and helped himself to a lovely chocolate assortment belonging to my mother. After removing all the gifts from the sofas, and carefully eliminating the tiny black evidence of his visit, I surveyed the damage. He had eaten through the cellophane, through the cardboard box, and through the paper diagram--just to the left of a peanut butter-filled treat. After apparently struggling with it for some time, he settled for the more readily available walnut and white chocolate combo, and ferreted it off to wherever his secret mouse lair is. Then he scattered the paper shavings all over, and pooped on my sofa. Adam says that's what I get for doing my shopping so far ahead of time. We'll see who's laughing when he opens up a package from Amazon and sees "The Joy of Sex" instead of "The Joy of Cooking." Um, Merry Christmas, Mom! That's actually not even a possibility, as I'm sure Mrs. Stone already has her own copy of "The Joy of Cooking." But something equally disatrious could strike at the last minute. Like a mouse eating through the cellophane and cardboard protecting your delicious Christmas chocolates.

As you may have guessed, my views on mouse-preservation have shifted. Adam was dispatched to Long's Drugs shortly following the chocolate incident, and now there are two good, old snap traps just waiting for that furry little bastard to come and get it. And before anyone gets all huffy about it, I'd like to see how they felt after picking up rat crap, and having to go back out for another box of chocolates, with only fifteen shopping days until Christmas. At least we all can rest assured, knowing that he had a decent last meal.

Addendum: See Adam's version of the above incident