Fortunately, I know the answer to the question on everyone's mind. What has become of P.B. the mouse? After the ugly incident in which P.B., with a snap trap attached to his leg, tried to get back into his hidey hole and found that the entrance was a shade to small for his new footwear to fit through, we lost sight of him for a while. His whereabouts were really of no concern to me, as long as he kept out of the pantry and didn't poo in my purse. But there was just a small part of me that wanted some closure in the matter. Unfortunately, as Adam will soon observe on his own page, I'm sure, the result of this entire saga is not the one I had hoped for. Somewhere in the chimney or its surrounds lies the body of P.B.--I knew him. I broke his leg, drugged him, and finally drove him to seek a secluded place for dying in. How is it that I know these things? I followed my nose. Emanating from the wall next to my desk is the foulest, most nauseating stench one could possibly imagine. In his own decomposing way, P.B. is exacting revenge on me for having mangled his hindquarters. The only solution until we can find the enzyme cleaner that we need, or someone to come and fish P.B.'s tiny, putrid corpse out of the wall, is to stop breathing through our noses in the computer room. Not being a mouth-breather by nature, I can spend a maximum of five minutes working at my desk before I begin to feel woozy. And, in fact, I'm coming upon that limit now. You'll forgive my absence, and I'm sure you'll understand if I don't write for a while.