So last night Big Dog casually mentioned he saw a mouse in the garage when he left for work in the morning.
What I heard was, "I saw a mouse but it didn't occur to me to tell you so I hope you didn't run into the furry little fellow." My response wasn't quite so nice.
While I love most creatures big and small, I'm not fond of mice. Not Jacque and Gus, not the Three Blind Mice, not Stuart Little, not any of them. It stems from a near-death experience I had as a kid. We lived in the country and one day I opened a kitchen drawer and guess what was in there. I'm pretty sure it jumped on my head and scurried up and down my arm. I screamed in terror while my family laughed hysterically. Not doing that again.
Which meant it was time for Mike to earn his rent. I tossed him in the garage and an hour later, after 59 minutes of pitiful meowing, I let him back in. No dead mouse anywhere. So Big Dog set a couple of traps with peanut butter. This morning, no dead mouse, but no peanut butter either. Apparently, we've got a game of cat and mouse going. Mouse 1, McCoys 0.
The challenge is on. That mouse is going down.