If I’m lucky, there’s a mouse trap downstairs, in the pantry, that’s done its job successfully.

But I don’t want to go down there.

Catching mice has never been this complicated before.

Was it the trip to Disney?

Is it because the other morning Ella found the trap, empty, and threw it away because, she said, she heard on TV that mice are good?

Why would I rather catch the mouse alive and make it our pet?

Is it the vivarium I went into last week at work?

We’ve had mice in the pantry before. It’s a big walk-in job, with plenty of shelves for the little critter to scurry around on. But they never seem to eat much. There are no holes chewed in the corners of cereal boxes, no rice strewn along the floor. They only appear in winter, when it’s cold and wet outside. This one has been the trickiest to catch. The past two two nights it’s eating the peanut butter without tripping the trap.

Oy. Here I go.

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