Thursday, August 1, 2013


She came last night again, her pace slower. She even looked at me. "Where the hell is dinner?" she seemed to ask before hiding behind a sliding door.

Damn! I thought. The traps didn't work. That thing is too tiny, too light, and managed to eat crackers, cheese, peanut butter, hell, a whole fucking banquet, and glide by without disturbing the clap-lock system. That, or I bought a piece of shit from amazon that got glowing reviews. Take your pick.

I am talking, of course, about my new tenant, a mouse. If I call the animal  a "she," it's because "souris" (mouse in French) gets the feminine gender.

Every time I see her, I can't help thinking about a novel I wrote, a tongue-in-cheek romantic comedy where a sassy woman finds a rat at her place and decides to feed him cheese. Fiction is meeting reality here. I am thinking, is this a sign? Should I release From A to Zoe?

Just ordered a set of new humane traps.  Wait! Is that her laughing behind my back?

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