I have to hand it to you, for all the resourcefulness. You have out-smarted 7 traps set by two college-educated adults. You have charmed my daughter, who squeals with delight that you are "wittle bitty and soooo sweeeet." You have provided hours of excellent physical exercise for my sons, who have arranged and rearranged the furniture (without putting it back, I might add) in an effort to find you.
But I'm onto you, you cheeky little rodent.
Behind that tiny little face that has enthralled my children is a sinister mind. You are getting bolder in your torment of me, poking that little head out from under the fridge and looking at me while I sit here and type. I hear you heartlessly chewing the wires on my fridge. Since you're so smart, I feel sure that you are aware of the current economic crisis, and you should know that instead of replacing a broken fridge, I'd much rather spend my money on something exciting, like gas.
Furthermore, you are giving me no credit for trying humane, no-kill methods at the beginning. I was going to set you free, for Pete's sake–free to take your mousey little mind games over to the neighbor's house.
Thanks to you, I find myself looking for little mice in my peripheral vision, everywhere I go. Every piece of gray fuzz or dirt in my house (and oh, there are many) is suddenly suspect.
You have also ruined peanut butter for me, possibly forever. Every time I see a glob of it now, I picture the residue left behind after you licked the trap clean, without snapping it.
Cheeky little rodent.
You are messing with me.
And it has to stop. I have a friend with a cat, and I'm not afraid to call her, even if it means sneezing for the next three months.
It's you versus me, bucko, and one of us is going down.
And seeing as how I'm the one sitting here composing a letter to a rodent, I think we all know which one it will be.