So we had a mouse in our house. I can’t stand it. I’m deathly afraid of mice. Horrified, mortified. That old line about they’re more afraid of you than you are of them is a just a load of hooey. For the most part, seeing a mouse isn’t how you know you have one.
You see the signs, but not the mouse — a few “tracks” on the cabinet beside the washer, dog food missing out of our Beagle Boy Cletus’ bowl. So I set a trap. The old-school kind. I hate those. They’re so hard for me to set.
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