Furry Little Beasts

A few weeks ago, about the same time as the first really cold snap hit, they appeared on the kitchen floor. Those nasty little tell-tale signs of....... a mouse! Ugh! I thought they had gone away after the first sighting, but no; they're back. I hate those little beasties. No matter where I've lived and no matter how much I clean my house, those furry little beasts always seem to find a way in. It's like they have a facebook page or something that says "Party as Sass's House" and they come looking for me.

I know. It's silly. But I do my part and put out something "special" for them to eat -- okay, it's rat poison -- and hope they have a good ole time. But then I lie awake waiting to hear them scurry across the tile floor or nibble at the treat. When I do, it just creeps me out to no end; I can envision their little shiny eyeballs staring at me. They run away when I turn on the lights, so no chance to swat them with anything, or throw a bucket over them. Drats!

So, a couple of nights ago I started with the special treats. For two nights now, my dreams have been filled with visions of dozens of tiny rodents with their disease-ridden fur pelts lounging around on my furniture, eating Doritos and drinking little mousy cocktails and discussing the state of the economy while I cringe in my bed! Sometimes they're plotting my demise through some terrible and embarassing means, like just scaring the beejesus out of me while I'm getting dressed by running up my pants leg or by hanging out in the toilet, in the dark, and when I get up in the middle of the night.... BAZINGA (as Sheldon would say)! It's not that I'm scared of them per se; it's just that they are the nastiest little critters! Never could understand why Ron Weasley had a pet rat, by the way, and felt very justified when it turned out that Scabbers was indeed wicked and foul and nasty.

The routine begins again tonight, as I prepare for bed. I'll put out the furry little beast special party food, close my bedroom door and stuff some towels under it to give myself the illusion of security from having them salsa dance on my bed while I'm asleep, and try to dream of Santa and Christmas and Tom Selleck wrapped up in a big red bow -- and little else -- under my tree.

Note to Santa: if you don't want to fight the furry little beasts for your cookies and milk, you'll see to it they're gone before then. And I start baking cookies this week...