There's a dead mouse under my kitchen sink
Yep. That about sums it up. I'd been suspecting that we have a mouse. I thought I caught a glimpse of one scurrying into our hall closet one night. But it could have been my imagination, right? I didn't see any other signs that a mouse had moved in. I'd tangled with mice before, so I knew what to look for. Poop. And there wasn't any.

I decided to buy some traps, but I hadn't bothered to set one up yet. After all, I wasn't convinced I had a mouse, and those little buggers are a pain to set. Then last night I was loading the dishwasher, and I was pretty sure I saw the furry little bastard dart into the closet again. Well, that did it. I got out some peanut butter, set the trap and put in under the kitchen sink, which is usually a popular hangout with mice.

This morning, I overslept, but while I was getting ready, I looked under the sink to see if the trap had worked. I didn't think it would so soon, but I figured I should check just in case. And there it was. A pudgy, little dead mouse. Caught in the trap. I was running late, so I asked The Boy to deal with the carcus disposal. He said no. There's this annoying regulation that we can't take our trash out until after nine at night because we live on the main street of town, which meant there was nowhere to throw out the dead mouse. So The Boy left it there. All the way home from work tonight, I kept thinking about how there was a dead mouse waiting for me under the sink. I really should bag it up or something. I've done it in the past, so I should be able to handle it. But, um, I think I might wimp out and make The Boy do it. Because dead mice are just gross.