Or, in the Scottish: "There’s a moose! Loose! About this hoose!" Gulp.
Terry found the evidence of our rodent visitor this morning, when he went to pour himself some cereal and found that the box had been … nibbled. Now, I’d like to blame this on Rubin (let’s face it, we blame him for everything else), but the sad lack of opposable thumbs on the fur guy would have made it pretty difficult for him to open the cupboard door (Wait… how did the mouse do it, then?) so we have to conclude that it was, indeed, a mouse.
Now, I’m not frightened of mice, so what bothers me is this: WHY? Why do we have a mouse? Is it because we are filthy perhaps? (Note: we are not filthy. In fact we are clean! But then, what’s with the mouse? Why is it here? I mean, are they like headlice or something? Do they prefer clean
heads houses? Say they like clean houses…) Is it because no matter how much time I spend cleaning and scrubbing and – yes – picking up bits of grass and fluff from the stair carpet WITH MY BARE HANDS because the Turbo Tiger totally broke, the floors are still always covered in all kinds of crap? (And that we really can blame Rubin for, seriously). WHY THE MOUSE?
Also: I feel sorry for the mouse. It mean, it’s not like it’s his fault, is it? He was probably all, "hey, I fancy gettin’ me some Crunchy Nut Cornflakes" and so he did, and now we’re going to have to capture him and kick his furry ass back to wherever he came from. Or actually, come to think of it, maybe not back to wherever he came from, because wherever he came from is clearly too close to my cereal cupboard for comfort. And yes, we will use a humane trap (and yes, we will buy plastic containers for the cereal from now on), but he’s probably all little and cute and twitchy-nosed, and maybe we should keep him? Maybe we could get him one of those Habitrail things, and feed him cereal, and all live happily ever after?
I think we will call him Clive.