We have a mouse.

If you know me, you know this is not good. In fact, this is cause for a hotel. Or a week or so sprawled out/folded in half in the back seat of the car. Meece and I are not friends. They paralyze me and cause me to stand on the highest point possible. They cause my eyes to flit around the room looking for any sign of movement. Every speck of anything that I see on the floor, on the counters, on the table, on the piano, on the fireplace, on the carpet, has been left by the little gray demon, I’m certain.

Why, oh, why have creatures decided that our house is the right house? I feel like I need to don a hazmat suit and carry a flame thrower in order to inhabit my own space.

I am grateful for cartoon mice, but not so much the one in the house, because it.is.not.a.cartoon.

I am grateful for cats and would love to borrow approximately 14 of them for a couple of days.

And I am grateful for Sam, aka Sylvester, who will have the responsibility of catching Speedy Gonzales TONIGHT, I say.