OK, I admit it. My aversion to mice has become kinda pathological. Even as I recognize their cute-ness, all I can imagine is that the mouse is-- for some unexplainable reason-- going to touch me. Usually to run over my feet. And this contact-- for some unexplainable reason-- is completely horrific to me.
I'm sure you can see where this is going...
We have a mouse. A saucy, insolent mouse who refuses against all common sense to behave in a mouse-like manner. Knowing it exists, I stomp around the house and turn on lights. I make sure it knows I'm coming and has ample time to hide itself. And yet...
Tonight, as I was watching television in a brightly lit room in the EARLY evening, said mouse decided to zip out from under the couch (on which I was sitting), and dart around the room. This isn't the first time that this suicidally bold mouse has accosted me-- and Mike now knows that certain... strangled... tone to my cry. So he came post-haste, and we briefly managed to trap the furry little bugger.
Briefly.
How did it escape? It charged me. Smelling my fear, I suppose, the mouse charged and managed to escape under the stove. And me? Well, it's loose and I've managed to force myself back downstairs again where ninja-mouse will no doubt make yet another attempt against my person.
Yep, I remain at the mercy of a tiny ball of fluff no more than two inches long. But cheeky-- and EVIL. Never doubt the EVIL.
