Squeak, Squeak.

I keep sticky traps in my room to catch the spiders and silver fish and whatever other unlucky insects scamper across my floor. One stays under my chair and the other under my bed.

But two days ago, coming into my room after having been gone to Courtney's for the night, my toe suddenly hit the edge of something sticky. I was caught off guard and squealed, since nothing sticky is supposed to be in the middle of my floor. Upon looking down, I shrieked loudly, because to my intense surprise, the plump body of a little mouse was firmly clutched by the sticky trap which formerly had resided in all its glorious stickiness under my bed. I'm not sure how, but the mouse had somehow wrestled the sticky trap out from under the bed before giving up the ghost. And how did he die? I'm betting either starvation or a heart attack or maybe a stroke.

Poor little thing.

Wait, what? Poor little thing my foot! What was the varmint doing in my room in the first place? Probably chewing through my books, or pooping in my clothes, or some such unforgivable deed. So, I'm not the least bit sorry he was ensnared by my sticky trap. Not the least bit.

Now excuse me while I go empty my drawers and check for... you know... mouse droppings.

Oh, and Boots and Irene? Hello! Y'all are very much falling down on your revered and essential jobs of killing the mice while they're outside so that they don't feel free to come inside. And no, Irene, I don't care if you have five mewing imps hanging to your fur. You need the extra nourishment of mice anyway. And Boots, being fifteen years old is no excuse either. Okay, maybe it is. If I was eighty something, or however old you are in human years, I wouldn't want to hunt mice either. Come to think of it, I wouldn't ever want to hunt mice. So, that analogy pretty much just crashed.