The sun is shining, the daylight lengthening, and the mice are invading the house like a wave of unstoppable crusaders sacking the fertile crescent 1000 years ago. The are making a pilgrimmage to the Holy Cracker Pantry and will not be denied. I've seen one distract the dog while 30 others sprint for the Pringles can under the girls' bunk beds. One of them (I call him Larry) seems to be the Houdini of trap springing. Despite the most succulent and exclusive chocolate I sacrifice to bait the traps, they get sprung without capturing a single, hapless victim.
I hear chanting at night, "Larry! Larry! Larry!" coming from the forced air heating vent under my bed. It sounds like Alvin and the chipmunks; if they were packing and had become fanatical members of a death-worshipping, chocolate-eating Jonestown cult.
I am worried, now. I can't find the can opener anymore and I haven't seen the cat for three days. Maybe I should get a snake. Maybe a bunch of snakes. That would be better than TV. Talk about a Reality Show. Eeeeeww.
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