Of Gus Gus and Piddle Pads

Tonight I got home from buying a "Deluxe Piddle Pad" to remedy any future epic car seat blow outs and I immediately began to load the dishwasher because its that time of year, and I am convinced Chet is going to unleash his army of mice on us again.

Then I took a drink of water. And I choked on it.

Because out of the corner of my eye, I saw the fuzzy brown hiney and sleek pink tail of a frantic mouse. One of Chet's scouts, no doubt.

Frantic because though I was choking on water, I was simultaneously jumping up on the kitchen island and gurgling "MOUSE! MOUSE!" to the Hubs who was detained in the other room trying to unleash Newbie from the car seat while nursing his own back injury.

We couldn't catch him. Mostly because I ran straight to a dining room chair after the island and did a little less than a superb job tracking the mouse while the Hubs found a flashlight and Tupperware.

There are two places we can go from here:

1) I can go buy a few more "Deluxe Piddle Pads" and stuff them down my pants while I sheepishly tip toe around my house waiting for the next sighting.

2) I can summon every bit of the fire cracker Texan within myself and declare war on the mice, purchasing all forms of glue traps, snap traps, bear traps, and hand grenades this side of the Mississississississippi.

I'm opting for #2. HOOK 'EM!!!!

...this reminds me of a mouse incident that took place five years ago when the Hubs was a college student and a bachelor and a slob, consequently making him land lord to a mouse infestation the likes of which we have not seen since (On account of I vacuum. And shower. And occasionally do the dishes.)

Anyway, one night while we were dating, I was over chillin' with the Hubs on the couch in the living room when we see a gray flash of fuzz cross the living room floor. The Hubs grabbed a Christmas popcorn bowl and a flashlight and caught up with the little sucker in time to trap him under the bowl.

Then what?

Then the Hubs', in his infinite college sophomore wisdom, grabbed a can of Lysol (the first time he had ever touched the can since my mother-in-law stashed it in the cupboard) and proceeded to crack the bowl up just enough to stick the can inside and spray.

WHAT?!?!?

Was he trying to give the thing fume poisoning or something?!?!

Apparently.

But it didn't work.

Because that little bugger kept right on kickin'.

So now we go with the traps.

Because as much as you may think they are inhumane, believe you me, it is a whole heck-of-a lot better than the end that little Lysol victim met in the garage once the Hubs realized his inhalation plan wasn't working.

May he rest in peace.