A lazy Saturday morning. I wander into the kitchen with vague notions of breakfast..."Blueberry muffins, maybe. That sounds good." Wee Ginge Beastie enthusiastically agreed, provided she could help make them. We started to assemble ingredients, and I opened the stove drawer to procure the muffin tin, only to find a fat, brown mouse squatting in it.
A fat, nasty, verminous, disease-bearing, foul abomination of a rodent. In. My. Muffin tin! (No, Dino -- that is not a euphemism.)
I screamed. It jumped and scurried. I yanked the drawer all the way out, ran to the back door and launched it in to the back yard like I was going for the shot put record (narrowly missing CalvinsDad, who was fixing the hose). This commotion drew the Usual Suspects (three children and a dog) who all looked concerned. I explained that we had a mouse, and that I had freaked a bit.
SnarkGirl did not help when she elbowed her little sister and said, "You know what THAT means, Ginge? Our house is the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse!"
"COME INSIDE, IT'S FUN INSIDE!" Ginge bellowed at the top of her (tuneless) lungs, and proceeded to march around the dining room table, leading an imaginary parade. Both girls, raised on the Disney-esque idea that all critters are cute, friendly, tame beasties, were horrified at the thought that we would soon be engaged in an all-out assault on all things rodent.
Nevertheless, plans four Mausageddon were laid. Husband and I consulted on traps, poison baits, flamethrowers and thermonuclear weaponry. He convinced me that conventional weapons ought to be a last resort. OctoBoy danced excitedly from foot to foot, eager to be on the hunt. He wanted to saddle up all three cats for battle.
A trip to the hardware store, and the war was joined.
Soon to be followed by part 2: "Cats are Useless Twats," and part 3: "Disney Can Lave My Nethers."