I have seen gross. I have known horror. I've experienced fear.
I've seen clench-jawed junkies shoot up outside my children's bedroom window. I have given birth twice. I have been frisked at a maximum-security prison. But nothing, NOTHING raises the hairs on my neck and makes me scream like a little girl like a tiny, grey mouse.
There was one in the living room this morning. Our trusty cat Cosmo was sniffing around my son's toys and I saw it bolt under the couch. You know you're in trouble when this:
is your last line of defense against evil. The same cat I have yelled at, tripped over and shuttled aside with my feet can become my hero if he would just man up.
He's caught them before, but I think he has become a little too well-fed and fixed to have the drive now. Once he lost sight of it, he sniffed around half-heartedly, then contented himself with attacking the dog.
I think I won't feed him today and if he catches said mouse, he'll get the biggest bowl of creamiest cream I can buy.