It’s the third day of war and already I must admit a grudging respect for the enemy - for it hath singlehandedly (pawedly?) administered a great many defeats unto me. First came the storming of my villa - before sun’s light had even cast a glow upon the world - and lo! in that moment I beheld several portents that filled me with dread.
Was it that my mousy foe, it of the diabolic disposition and intellect that I had formerly reserved only for collective intellects (re: corporations, thinktanks, etc, etc..), was not content to simply make me aware of its presence in my room - allowing itself to be captured before darting nearly quite literally out of these hands - and in doing so, displayed a pride that reminds me of Man?
Could it have been the taunting on Day 2? For upon breaking my fast, I found my companion’s eye both constant and critical - it wanted to observe me having my oatmeal. That’s fine. It doesn’t behoove a gentleman to go about chasing a legged bottle-rocket, anyway. It didn’t bother me - oh no! Starved of company as I am in this seasonal intercession period, its company would have nearly been comforting. The fear of its gnawing on my valuables….ate…away at my heart, though. As it sat there, sarcastically observing me taking my meal, I resolved to kill it through a game of wits.
Turns out that’s easier said than done. I imagine I could have much more easily murdered my dog (perish the thought! …and all the puns) - but regardless of my intent, little amount of malice and practiced lore has come in handy. It seems that either my subconscious like for the little thing has interfered with my desire to truly see it die at my hands (or because of my hands), or my pace is actually being set by a taskmaster so devious that no deficiency of size will permit it the lack of a good meal of peanut butter (let the record state at this point that the mouse has no apparent interest in apple chutney; though perhaps its nose is better than mine in sniffing out the expiration of items left in our fridge by roommates). Neither the “ramp leading up to the bucket filled with watery doom” nor the “toilet paper roll with treats on the end that tips into your watery doom, damn you” method has yielded much results, though the rim of the bucket filled with aquatic malice has in fact been cleaned much more thoroughly than I might have managed by myself; as of several minutes ago the same can be said for the edge of the toilet paper roll.
I consider the ante upped. Last resort (offensive to both my character and want of wit to win) are the sticky traps, but for now the game goes on with gravity as my weapon of choice. Stay tuned.