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The End of a Long Battle

Dear Mouse,

We met one chilly Sunday evening when I saw you out of the corner of my left eye. Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit was no match for your masterful skills of commanding my attention. In fact, your talents even peaked my husband’s interests. We tried to build a friendship that night, but you assaulted my leg and began to act irrationally. I don’t have room in my life for any more crazy,. I’m sorry if you felt trapped, we were just trying to set you free. Out in the great big world of trash bins and empty chip bags dropped by the people exiting the local buses.

You eluded me for several weeks, leaving little reminders of your unending presence in my kitchen cabinets. You ungratefully ate the peanut butter I laid out so carefully for you on special traps, er… I mean plates. Yes, special mouse plates. The tiny white house, with the very trendy red door wasn’t even good enough for you. It was not, I assure you, an outhouse. But thanks for pooping inside it to let me know you had visited. You never showed yourself to me again, only ate all the green pellets in the special box I laid out for you and continued to leave me little “presents”. I had to rearrange my kitchen storage thanks to you, all so you could have open, empty cupboards over which to reign. A reign which I am disheartened and elated at the same time to know has come to an end.

This morning you decided to seek out what I assume little critters like you call second breakfast, and in the process showed yourself to my sweet, animal loving daughter. “Oh cute mommy! A baby! It’s so cute!” I hear her sweet cherub voice coo from the kitchen. Immediately I knew it was you. Thanks for dragging your paralyzed rear end out from wherever you’ve been hiding and landing in front of my refrigerator. I’m not scarred from having to pick you up by your lint covered tail and give you an old plastic apple container/ gray shopping bag burial in my trash can. The bit where you looked up at me through the bag and the apple container was an extra special touch. Nothing will make a hormonal pregnant woman feel better about herself than a look like that. Rest in peace little mouse, you put up a good fight, but I’m still at the top of the chain.

Your Hostess,