'Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the house
Not a creature was stirring
Not even a ...
Actually, there was a mouse stirring in our house last night. In fact, there were two. After a week of temptation, they were lured by peanut butter into running a gauntlet of glue traps and medieval, spring-loaded, spine-snapping devices on our kitchen counter.
This morning, one mouse was still stirring, struggling in vain to break free of a tenacious glue trap. His comrade had met a quicker, albeit ghastlier end, his lifeless body extending from a snapped trap with head inside, a final taste of peanut butter on his cold lips.
My wife loves all animals and naturally felt sorry for the dead and dying pests. I reminded her that she didn't feel sorry for them when they nibbled a loaf of bread or a sack of flour. She had screamed as they boldly skittered across the kitchen floor. She didn't think their droppings on the counter were cute, either. How soon some forget. But I did not forget.
Little bastards. Dead little bastards. Merry Christmas.