Eeek!

A mouse. Mice.

They scurry to and fro, and make merriment. Dust lover. Waste dweller.

One little bastard has just run in and out of my basement office in plain view.

I search the beams and boards in my basement ceiling, searching for their routes...where are they making their ingress and egress to my kitchen? Are these cobwebs 83 years old, or 83 minutes old?

I plug every crack and crevice with steel wool...I don't intend to give them any free shortcuts as they ramble throughout my home, the world of humans, a place where they are most unwelcome indeed. Do they eat the poisonous biscuits when two little girls (and two messy adults) scatter crumbs everywhere?

Sophie and I just finished reading, as our bedtime story of late, "Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH." Do I feel remorse when I see the half-eaten Tomcat brand bait block? No.

Lo, I am become Death, the destroyer of mouse worlds.