We have a mouse in our house. Except I feel like I should probably say "mice" instead because, when is it ever just one mouse? I know it's here because aside from the trail of turds that the little bugger left us, I saw it last night.
(Excuse me while I go throw up.)
This is not the first time we've had mice. It's kind of that time of year. But it's hard not to feel like they're attracted to us because we're living in filth. Of course, logically I know that when the weather gets colder they look for somewhere warm and cozy to build a nest, and if there's a tiny hole they can squeeze through they'll come right in.
This is my warm and cozy house, though. For us. And I'm not too thrilled to share it with a critter. I can barely get used to the multitude of spiders and the occasional centipede. But despite our best efforts: steel wool stuffed into cracks around the house and the usual suspects of traps, it's still here.
(Cough. Cough. Gag.)
I am disgusted and horrified. And a little bit well, apathetic. Which pretty much horrifies me all over. But when I saw it, I didn't scream and freak out, I just kind of thought, Of course there's still a mouse in here. Why on earth would it be gone?
(And then I might've ralphed.)
On the plus side, this morning my husband woke me up to inform me that there was a mouse in a trap this morning. So we're just going to go ahead and pretend that this was the one I saw, the last one, the only one. And my husband's hard work of filling every hole around the outside of the house is gonna keep all the rest out.
'Cause if not? I'm totally moving. Into a house full of cats.