Lordy, Lordy

I was sitting on the couch watching Project Runway All-Stars (don't judge) when what did I see scamper out from under my bedroom door? A MOUSE. An adorable, whisker-twitching, inquisitive rodent. Naturally, I jumped up on the couch. Then, I fetched the cat. "Twix!" I yelped. "Catch that mouse!" Twix is a house cat without front claws. But she has caught a mouse before. Two months ago, I left the side door open to allow a fresh coat of paint to dry, so she darted out, caught a mouse and dashed back in. Good job, Twix. And gross. Seriously.

So guess what. Twix didn't want the mouse. I guess. I mean, she raced under the bed right away, which was encouraging. But I suspect she was merely sulking. I ran outside and implored my neighbors. "Matt! Elliott! There's a mouse in my house!" Matt retrieved a trap from his own home, peanut buttered and everything. Elliott trailed in, brandishing a Captain America shield. I asked Matt to help me move my bed. If a mouse was under there, I sure didn't want to be the one to find it. "You never can tell what you're going to find when you move a lady's bed," Matt warned his young son. What we found was the cat. But no mouse. Twix bolted out to hide in the basement. Then Matt tried to set the trap. It snapped. I screamed. Elliott must think I'm a loon. Two more tries, and the trap was set. As I walked them out, Matt offered the services of his first-grader Harper to collect the soon-to-be deceased. 

Now, I sit. Watching the door. Pensively. The mouse must be in my closet, because I saw him again, peaking out to see if the coast is clear. It is not, little man. It is not. R.I.P. ASAP.