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We have a mouse

There’s a mouse in our kitchen. We hear him crawling through the walls and ceiling, working away in his secret laboratories. At one an exterminator came over, and he gave us mouse traps and offered a blood-thinning poison, which we politely declined. Since becoming girly vegetable people, we haven’t been able to bring ourselves to kill the little guy. Sometimes we see him poke out his little head from beneath the fridge, and he’s so cute. Once I caught him with a live trap, my very own creation. We put him into a tall bin, planning to take him to new home in the morning. But alas, when the morning came, he’d found the supernatural strength to jump out of the bin and had gone back to his lair. Sometimes we’ve come to peace with him, considering him our pet, even part of the family. Other times we think, “Mice carry disease! We’re all going to die!” We equals Teresa. And so we roll uneventfully on, coexisting, feeling guilty, building an occasional trap but having it come to naught.

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