Mice. I'm talking about mice.
I first noticed that they had taken refuge in our compost heap over the winter, but I thought I had gotten rid of them. By August, though, they had been sighted in the house. We occasionally found some, ahem, "trace fossils."
NO mouse lives in MY house! This means war!
We got those traditional-type snap traps, and have caught five of them to date. I really like NOT having mice in my place of residence, but I can't help but feel like a horrible person every time we catch one. Sure, they're dirty and spread disease and have no bowel control. They're still kind of cute.
Sometimes I make up conversations about it from the mice's point of view.
"Helen, they've set out traps! They know we're here! Take the children and run!"
"AUGH! They got Gerald, the monsters!"
"I can't believe Penelope is gone."
"Did you SEE what they did to Mike?!"
Sometimes the traps go off when I'm alone in the house with the kids, so I have to dispose of the corpses myself. It usually takes me about 30 minutes to psych myself up for it because I am revolted by the idea of my hand coming anywhere within three feet of a mouse. Sure, they're cute, but they're also revolting. The Squeaker who is my son gets really concerned by the looks of disgust on my face.
"Are you ok, Mommy?" He asks.
"Yes, sweetie," I reply, "Mommy just really doesn't like mice. I think they are worse than poop."
He really thought that idea was interesting so now he says, "Mice are worse than poop!!"