Category: All True Adventures

. . . why would I lie?

A no-tail cat tale

When we were first married twenty years ago, I was in a big hurry to adopt a kitten. Those were the days when I longed to nurture something, anything, preferably something cute. My lifetime allotment of the desire to nurture has dwindled dangerously close to empty. But then, I had to have a kitten.

And so we ended up with two, Sterling and Hamden. Sterling began life as a calm stray, but turned into a raving lunatic by the end of his 11 year lifespan. He spent his kittenhood spilling his water bowl and knocking things off tables. Hamden, on the other hand, was a perfect cat, an orange tabby with paws that looked like oversized mittens. He, alas, died from diabetes when he was 12. I loved that cat.
By then, our twins were five and our baby was a baby. But for some reason, we decided we must have another cat. And so, Millie the Millenium cat came home from the Humane Society.

Soon after, we got a dog, a Newfoundland, and Millie was not pleased. Soon after that, another baby was born into our family and Millie went crazy. She licked herself until she bled and refused to come down from the television. My husband took her to the vet thinking that perhaps she had an allergy, but no. Millie was mentally ill and needed to be medicated the rest of her life. Poor Millie.

After Millie, we adopted a spunky black cat named Shadow. Shadow behaved much like a dog and insisted on going outdoors. He followed us around the block. He was plucky. He, unfortunately, disappeared and right after that, the notice from our town reminded us that coyotes had been spotted in town and to be careful with our pets. Oh. Thanks.

After that, my husband said, “No more pets!” and frankly, I agreed, though I didn’t want to be the one to tell the kids. So, my husband told the kids and predictably, our youngest son cried a river of sorrow.

Within a month, my husband informed me, “The neighbor has kittens. I told her we’d take two.”

Wha–??!

We ended up with three mutant cats, two with no tails, one with half a tail with a bent end. They had fleas when we got them. They are ugly. The bent-tail cat walks funny, with her feet turned out. One tailless cat is freaked out all the time and looks at me as if I intend to carve her up with a butcher knife at any time. She is the most paranoid cat ever and her name is Roy.

The last cat is fluffy. She has long fur, but no tail and looks like a walking cloud. She’s sweet, though if someone walks too close to her, she’s apt to snag them with a claw just for the heck of it. Also, her hair has become matted because I have no innate longing to nurture, thus I ignore the cats as much as possible and I didn’t realize she needed to be brushed from time to time. The cats aren’t even on my to-do list. Poor cats.
So terrible mats developed on her back, months ago (I really should not be allowed to own pets) and TONIGHT, finally, tonight, I took clippers to her back and with much difficulty, shaved her.

Then, I examined her hind quarters and discovered matted poop. That explains why I plunged her into a sinkful of water and massaged her butt with my hands . . . touching poop. I’ve been a mother for fourteen years and I have no less distaste for touching poop than in my pre-motherhood days.

The cat, however, seems grateful.

I am inordinately pleased with the accomplishment of this random task and I thought you’d want to know.

So there.

Where I’ve been, what I’ve done and Paris

“Hello. I’m calling to report a student absence.”

“Teacher’s name?”

“Wood.”

“Student’s name?”

“John Smith*.” (*not actual name)

“Reason for absence? Is your student ill?”

“Uh . . . . uh . . . . uh . . . ”

“It’s all right if he’s not ill. I’ll just write parent permission.”

Thus, I was saved from lying before 8:00 in the morning. Today, our older boys had a school-at-home end-of-the-year picnic and the local waterpark had a homeschool day (tickets only $11 compared to the normal $35 price) and so we pulled our younger son out of school, took the day off work and frolicked all day.

However, so did about a kajillion other families, so the waterpark was really crowded. And the pool meant for the younger set was as cold as the ocean water off the coast of Washington, no exaggeration. My 4-year old did cavort in the chilly water and slide down the crowded slide and even dip her face into the water–just because she can–but she had more fun riding rides (an ancient carousel and an assortment of old carnival rides). We slid down one of those giant slides on black carpet–she on my lap–but at the tippy-top, she decided that she didn’t want to do it, but I said, “Oh, too late, we’re sliding,” and we did and when we reached the bottom, she immediately turned to me for a hug with a crumpled chin and an accusatory look. “That scared me!” she said.

We set our 14-year old twin boys free with instructions to meet us at 3:30 p.m. and they eventually found some friends they knew from homeschool P.E. class. I still have no idea if they went on a single waterslide or if they merely savored their freedom by wandering around, bumping into people.

My husband spent the afternoon with our 9-year old, standing in long lines to ride 3-minute waterslides. They also rode a rollercoaster twice. Oh, and my 9-year old went into the wave pool . . . my husband reported that he immediately lost sight of him in the chaos of the crowded waves. My son swam to the very far end of the wave-pool where the waves are of Perfect Storm dimension and, as he reports, “I almost drowned.” He realized he couldn’t tread the rough water for long and wisely swam to safety. My husband relayed this story to me with some shame, as he is the reigning Mr. Safety.
And, as if all that adventure weren’t enough, I spent an hour and a half at our own pool when we returned to town so my daughter could swim even longer. She is practicing underwater somersaults, but she calls them “underdogs.” That child has enough energy to power a small city.

The original point of this dissertation was to explain my dismay this morning when I realized that a domestic bomb of some sort had exploded, leaving mounds of laundry and stacks of dirty dishes everywhere. I was puzzled until I remember yesterday:

School, followed by work on VBS (Vacation Bible School), followed by a lengthy visit with a friend (whom I’ve been begging to come over . . . she came to pick up some VBS materials, but also to chat which was awesome). She left and I took the kids to the pool . . . came home in time for dinner (thank God for Crock-Pots) . . . then my mother stopped by, then I left for a meeting (VBS!) at church at 8:00 p.m., returning home by 10:00 p.m. I don’t think I washed a single load of laundry yesterday and so today, the molehills have turned into mountains.

But, happy day, Paris Hilton went back to jail and I can’t help but feel opposing emotions: pity for her because she is so clearly distraught, but pleasure because justice is served. If only Paris had been forced to have temper tantrums when she was three and didn’t get her way, she might not be having temper tantrums at age 26 when she doesn’t get her way. I hope that she is in jail thinking about how she messed up and not wondering why this bad thing is happening to her. I suspect she feels like a victim and not like a criminal, though.
You might find it odd that I have an opinion about Paris Hilton, but, of course, I have an opinion about everything. Or almost everything.

I’m published in the Christian Science Monitor today!

When you start writing in a blog, you never know where you’ll end up. My first big national publication!

* * *

I received the following response via email from someone of an older generation. I thought you might find it as thought-provoking as I did:

Here are my unsolicited thoughts on “Fortress America.” I was the age of your boys in the late 1950s and early 1960s growing up in Steilacoom. Both my parents worked, so during the summer we were on our own roaming the streets of Steilacoom. On warm days, while wearing swimming suits and flip flops (no helmets), we rode our bikes to American Lake to go swimming. We built rafts out of driftwood and floated out into Puget Sound paddling back with makeshift paddles. We rode our bikes up to Chambers Creek and used the rope swing to drop into the freezing cold water (sometimes naked).

One time I rode my bike to Lacey and stayed the night with a friend at a cabin owned by his grandparents (no adult supervision). We lived in a world of risk and there were occasionally some consequences. One of my friends (R. M. age 10) was hit by a car while riding his bike on Nisqually Street and died on the spot. Perhaps you have met his mother.

Did we have sex predators in the 1950s? No one talked about sex predators or sex for that matter, but they were out there. I encountered a couple of them. What kept us safe most of the time is that we roamed the streets in packs or at least with a buddy or brother. We also became “street smart” and knew who the weird people were in town and to keep our distance.

I guess the point is that we learned to live in a world of risk, and we developed a base of knowledge about these things that we would use during our life. I remember my childhood as being very carefree, but I know now it was not risk free. We did learn how to weigh risk versus opportunity. I’m not sure kids learn these things now, but maybe they don’t need to learn these lessons. Anything they want to know they can find on Google.

I’m also putting this comment (from the blog) here because I think it offers a great counter-balance to my article (no “flaming” from me . . . I think this is a complex issue and I agree with this commenter on many points):

I loved the article too, but I am compelled to ask, “Why not?” There were sex offenders in the 60s and 70s too, and in fact, crime rates were higher then. It’s actually SAFER out there today. I don’t want to minimize the horror of a sex offender on your street, and I’m not saying let your little ones out unsupervised, but aren’t your twins old enough to understand and stay away? The sex offender is a known risk that teenagers should certainly be able to comprehend and avoid.

Remember too, kids are most likely to be molested by someone they know and trust. Sad to say that stranger abduction is one of the things LEAST likely to happen to our kids, but we’ve been trained by the media to worry about it to a ridiculous degree.

If we agree that kids benefit from some independence, then let’s give them some. Isn’t there something to be said for teaching the skills they need for independence (street smarts, not going with strangers, etc) and letting them start using them, slowly but surely? I suspect we are protecting our kids to the detriment of their own safety skills. Remember the little boy scout who got lost in the woods last summer or the summer before, and he hid from the searchers because he was afraid they’d abduct him? He could have died because he didn’t have a good understanding of how to get help when he was alone and needed it!

I adore my kids and don’t want anything bad to happen to them, ever. I feel that part of my job is to teach them the skills they will need to stay safe and let them practice those skills as they get older. If I could walk to school at eight years old in the 1970s, my kids can today, as long they know how to be safe and I can ignore the Culture Of Fear that the 24 hour news organizations have polluted our culture with.

Zipping up my flame suit now.

Thanks, everyone, for your congratulatory comments and for your thoughtful responses. (I’m having issues with Gmail right now, so may not respond personally to all my comments as I normally do.)

Urban adventure

Last night, I drove into Seattle to meet a friend who was passing through on her way to Vancouver, B.C.  We hadn’t met face-to-face before–she lives in New Jersey, within spitting distance of Manhattan.  She used some highfalutin technological GPS gadget thingamajig to find us a restaurant.  We ended up in a laquered black and red Thai place and despite my utter lack of experience with Thai food (unless you count that Thai sauce from Trader Joe’s), I enjoyed the meal.  More than that, I enjoyed the conversation.  It’s always pleasant to converse with someone who is talkative and in possession of strong opinions.

My Sister’s Keeper film

I had to walk to my car alone.  She offered to walk me there (basement of a parking garage!), but I said, “no, I’m fine,” and I was.  Lucky for me, no crazed urban rapist followed me or I would have had to do some extreme mom-karate moves, killing the guy with one well-placed kick.  I say “lucky” because I’m sure I would have pulled a muscle if I’d been forced to defend myself.

I didn’t get home until almost 11:00 p.m.  By then, I had to peel my contacts off my bloodshot eyeballs. 

But it was all worth it, even my exhaustion today.

Oh, but bad news. I have recently been informed that you’re only supposed to have one space after a period. This forces me to undo a habit I have had since that typing class I took in high school. Ack. My thumb believes two spaces are necessary at the end of a sentence. I do not think my brain is strong enough to foil the unconscious space-space of my thumb. 

Non-slumber party

Tonight, I took my four children and two of their friends to see “Shrek,” which we all enjoyed.  My 9-year old son thought it was the funniest “Shrek” movie yet.  My daughter laughed like a maniac, even when she had no idea what was funny.  (I think the Super Loud Laugher sitting in our row may have encouraged her to extreme guffaws.) 

On the way home, we were stopped at a red light.  The kids all noticed two workers removing letters from a Walgreen’s sign.  My daughter wanted to know what they were doing, so we all glanced over just in time to see the lady remove the “S” from “SHIRTS” turning it into “HIRTS 2/$10.”  The kids thought this was amusing . . . “HIRTS, only FIVE DOLLARS!” they shouted and laughed.

And then–it was such a long red light–the woman put back the “S” and moved to the “R” while the older boys stammered, “Oh no, no, no . . . don’t remove the R!” and just at that moment, off came the “R,” turning SHIRTS into . . . well, SHI TS, two for ten dollars . . . and the barking laughter grew hysterical.  The light turned green, I accelerated and the kids screamed with laughter.  I was laughing, by then, at their hilarity.

I’m no longer laughing, though, because somehow I ended up hosting what amounts to a slumber party.  We returned home at nearly 8:30 p.m. . . . I ran a bath for my daughter, then changed into exercise clothes.  Then one of my 14-year old twins appeared at my bedroom door.  He looked sheepish and said, “Uh, Mom . . . we have a problem.”

And then he explained that the two boys who went to the movie with us planned to spend the night.  They’d cleared it with their mother, only no one had bothered to ask me.  “And,” he continued, “John and Joseph [*not their real names] think they are spending the night, too.  They’re downstairs.”

Now, earlier tonight, the same son asked me if John [*still not his real name] could spend the night.  I went a little berserk at his request and explained that “I DO NOT WANT ANYONE TO SPEND THE NIGHT!  I’VE SPENT TEN MILLION YEARS THIS WEEK WITH FOUR HUNDRED CHILDREN IN AND OUT OF MY HOUSE AND NO NO NO NO NO!”  I was very coherent and eloquent.  Ha.  And he didn’t say another word. 

And yet . . . and yet . . . I couldn’t say “no” to these four kids who’d already asked their parents and gained permission and WHY DO THEY WANT TO SPEND THE NIGHT?  (Could it be the ice cream they all ate at 10:30 p.m.?)  I had earlier raved to my son, “WHAT IS THE POINT?”  When I just informed the younger three kids that at 11:00 p.m. I expected them to go to sleep, Joseph [*still not a real name] protested and began to tell me about how things are done at his house and I said, “Uh, at my house, kids do not stay awake past 11:00 p.m.”  (And yet, at the moment, seven boys are awake and it’s 11:16 p.m.)

I haven’t even met the parents of John and Joseph [*uh, fake names].  Seriously, who sends their kids down the street to spend the night at someone’s house without meeting the host-mother (aka the INSANE LADY WHO LETS HALF THE NEIGHBORHOOD SPEND THE NIGHT)?

Well.  Okay then.  It is what it is.  Did I mention that my husband’s out of town for two days?  Boy, what fun I’m having in his absence. 

(The three youngest boys have created an elaborate “fort” in the family room using an assortment of quilts and couch pillows and heavy blocks and . . . oh, a bunch of stuff.  They are sleeping in this haphazard shanty-town.  Well, “sleeping” might be overstating what’s happening at the moment.)

Oh, I hope we sleep tonight.  I hope they sleep.  I want to sleep. 

*  *  * 

Update:  The three youngest (all about 9 year old, I think) slept–as far as I can tell–from 12:30 or 1:00 A.M. until 6:00 A.M.  The oldest four?  Well, I came down at midnight and told them to turn off the lights and be quiet and go to sleep.  They were ever so cooperative.  Why?  Because as soon as I went upstairs, they turned on the computer and resumed playing Runescape.  (All sites on their computer have to be approved by me–everything’s password-protected–so I am not worried about them accessing other things.)  Oh yes, they did–as I slept, confident in their obedience.  And then, at 3:40 a.m., my daughter woke and crawled into bed with me.  Then at 6:00 A.M., she woke up, whining.  I told her to go back to sleep and then the DOOR SLAMMING woke me at 7:30 A.M.  All the boys were awake and the younger boys were attempting to “prank” the older boys.  Thus, much door-slamming ensued.  I came down in my purple bathrobe and reprimanded everyone . . . I am so not the cool mom, not the fun mom, the ha-ha-ha, isn’t-this-fun?-mom.  I’m the irritated mom who got roped into a non-slumber party and now I’m weary.

By 9:00 A.M., I was ordering everyone to clean up the messes they’d made.  (One kid brought peanuts in the shell and so shells were everywhere.)  By 9:30 A.M., I was sending them home.  By 10:00 A.M., my 14-year olds were falling asleep.  I demanded the truth . . . and that’s when they confessed to playing games all night long–well, they did sleep an hour.  I think they were just too tired to lie.  Huh.  I have now blocked access to their favorite computer game as a little demonstration of the consequences of disobedience and lying.  And the best thing is that they had to choose between going to the beach with me (to explore the low-tide) or going with their friend (who spent the night) to an activity on the military base.  They chose the military base . . . so they are staggering from booth to booth, display to display, activity to activity on an hour’s worth of sleep.  So, there!  Take that!  Now whose laughing?  

My 9-year old got about six hours of sleep.  He’s at a birthday party right now.  My 4-year old and I are going to explore the exposed shore.  I shall return with pictures.  Maybe.

The puzzling appearance of Tina the Pug

UPDATE:  12/4/15 

Dear Readers – especially those of you who arrived here via a search engine in search of “pug service dogs”:

This has been a popular post throughout the years.  (Weird, but true.)

I would like to sincerely offer my apology for this post.  When I wrote it eight years ago, I thought I was merely describing an amusing situation I encountered at the grocery store while shopping with my 4-year old.  I had never seen a pug who was a service dog and due to the circumstances, assumed that Tina the Pug’s owner brought her with him because he loved her dearly, not because she was an actual service dog.  I had no idea that pugs could be service dogs.  I thought she was a fake.  I admit it.  I did.  I had never met a pug who was a service dog.  (And, I’d like to note that I have never met one since.)

Listen.  I’m not the only one who is curious about the plethora of service animals.  Here’s a whole article in The New Yorker:  Pets Allowed:  Why are so many animals now in places where they shouldn’t be? 

But I said it first, way back in 2007 and ever since, very upset pug owners have written to me and left unhappy comments and read this blog post and become furious with my ignorance.  I’ve been the recipient of a lot of venom from hostile pug owners.

So, I’d like to say, I am sorry.  I’m sorry I didn’t understand that Tina the Pug was a real service dog.  I’m sorry I expected service dogs to wear official vests.  I’m sorry that I made light of the fact that I encountered a pug wearing a pink shirt who was actually a service dog.  I really am terribly sorry.

And not just because I received the following message to my personal Facebook page.  (I took the liberty of including it here in its entirety without censoring it, though I omitted the author’s name for obvious reasons.)  I am deeply sorry for the loss of Tina the Pug and I send my sympathy to her owner, even though he hates my guts for posting this silly blog post so many years ago.  I meant no disrespect in the first place.  I like dogs!  I like service dogs!

So, once and for all, I apologize for my post and for my lack of knowledge about pugs as service dogs.  I know better now.  (If you’re curious, you can read government rules about service dogs here.)

Nov 20th, 11:59pm

I just want you to know that you are an absolute CUNT for accusing me of having a fake service dog that was a pug. You’re a total incompetent bitch and my physical therapist made my female pug a service dog because she saved my life during a staph infection. Your comments are vile. This was in Washington State in 2006/2007. Her name was Tina. She wore lots of pink clothing. Pugs can’t wear a vest. So they give us an ID tag with her picture on it. She was allowed to go everywhere with me. She died 7 weeks ago of cancer. And I am dumbfounded by your ignorance. This was in Lakewood/Tacoma. If this isn’t you please forgive me. After her death I decided to google her and she showed up on your blog or FB. Whomever it was needs to know they are evil.

Still, this was a pretty mean message to send a stranger on the Internet, don’t you think?

And now, for the original post from May 16, 2007: 

My 4-year old daughter and I dropped off the boys at the YMCA for P.E. this morning and then drove to the grocery store.  I had a page of coupons from the Sunday paper and an intention to shop quickly so my little girl couldn’t ask for too much junk food.  I added to my grocery cart the following extraneous items:  yogurt fruit snacks, Sponge Bob crackers, a handful of yogurt pretzels from the bulk food bins, a candy bar.  Ridiculous, I know.

We’re standing in line, then.  By some miracle, she’s sitting in the cart rather than wandering like a free-range chicken.  And then a man walks by with a dog on a leash.  Seeing a service dog is not unusual at this store–I’ve seen a service dog tethered to a wheelchair on a semi-regular basis.  But today?  Today, the dog walking by on the leash is a Pug.  A Pug in a pink shirt, as a matter of fact.

My daughter leaned over and said to me, “Can I pet the dog?” and I hemmed and hawed and the man heard her and so I said, “Can she pet your dog?” and he said, “SURE!” and picked up that bug-eyed Pug so she could reach it.  Then he said, “Her name’s Tina.”

That man stood too close to me with his Pug.  My daughter petted Tina’s back and asked about the harness.  The man answered eagerly and I thought, okay, enough, put down the Pug!

While I unloaded my items onto the conveyor belt, I could hear the man talking to a woman in the adjacent line.  I couldn’t hear her, but I could hear him explaining about Tina and how she doesn’t usually wear her vest that indicates she’s a service dog.  He went on to explain that Tina loves to go places, and that her favorite destination is IKEA.

Okay, first of all, a PUG?  As a service dog?  Seriously?

Secondly, everyone and their five-year old knows that service dogs are not pets (they don’t wear pink shirts, I’m guessing) and no one is allowed to pet them.  Unlike Tina.

Yet, if Tina hadn’t strolled through the store in her pink shirt, I’d have nothing to blog about today.  So, thanks, Tina!  Who knew pugs could be service dogs?!

* * *

January 10, 2010

Nearly three years later, I still get comments on this post and some of them are vicious!  Apparently, Pug owners are a feisty bunch and they do not appreciate my comments about Pug service dogs.  Relax, Pug Service Dog Owners!  I’m not personally insulting you, nor am I saying that your particular Pug (who is adorable, I’m sure) isn’t a valid, Real Service Dog.

All I’m saying is that I seriously doubt that Tina the Pug was a service dog.  I am familiar with service dogs and I know that no one is allowed to pet a service dog while it is working.  And furthermore, if the dog isn’t working, it shouldn’t be in a grocery store.  I’m not saying Pugs can’t be service dogs.  I’m not saying your service dog didn’t save your life and discover the cure for cancer.  Far be it from me!

So, simmer down.

UPDATE AGAIN (February 26, 2014):

People continue to visit this post through Internet searches pretty frequently.  And today I heard the guys on the radio talking about service animals.  I can’t find the specific story they were talking about, but it was similar to this:  “Fake service dogs a growing problem . . .”

Plop, Flush, Sob

Today, I found myself in the church bathroom standing next to my 4-year old daughter as she rubbed a fist into her eyes to stop herself from crying.  And then, from inside the stall, we heard the toilet flush and she burst into fresh tears because inside that toilet was the hot pink plastic ring she wore on her thumb to church.  A few minutes earlier, while using the toilet, she dropped the ring with a plop into the toilet.  

A church lady brought her to me and explained that the ring was in the toilet.  I said, “No problem.  I’ll get it out.”  She said, “Don’t you want some gloves?”  I said, “No.  I’ll just use this straw.”  And then I got a plastic fork, too.  Germs, schmerms.   

But we were too late.  The toilet stall door was closed and as we stood waiting to fish for the ring, we heard the aforementioned flush.

She cried and cried because, of course, the ring was long gone.  I did wave a plastic straw in the blue water, just for effect, I guess, but it was hopeless.  We hurried to the Dollar Store which had no rings, though we did buy five bucks’ worth of consolation junk.

Later tonight, at Fred Meyer, I thought I’d check to see if they carried plastic rings for little heartbroken girls.  The lost ring came from a game called “Pretty Pretty Princess,” but I found the game at Value Village, the thrift store.  But hope propelled me down the toy aisle at Fred Meyer and there I found plastic treasure:  the very game in question.

My daughter will be so thrilled tomorrow morning when she finds not just one replacement ring, but five plastic rings with matching plastic necklaces and bracelets.

I wonder if she’ll remember the lost plastic ring in the flushing disaster of 2007?  I know I will never forget her devastated face when she heard the flush of the toilet.  And now that I’ve came up with replacement rings, I can stop feeling guilty for laughing just a little inside at the absurdity of it all.

WWJBD?

What would Jack Bauer do?

If an intruder entered under cover of darkness, what would Jack Bauer do?

I am nothing, if not attentive to details.  And so, I grew suspicious.  Yesterday, I took steps to confront the intruder.

This morning?  I heard rustling.

I caught the intruder.

Now, the question is:  what would Jack Bauer do? 

He would most likely kill the intruder with a swift blow to the head.

I am considering the merits of suffocation versus drowning. 

My husband refuses to be a party to this murder.

I wondered if it would be cruel and unusual to discard the intruder in a Trader Joe’s grocery bag.  Let it die slowly in the trash can.

What would Jack Bauer do?

He would have thought through the logistical problem of trapping the intruder in a glue trap.  Then again, a prisoner struggling against a gluey base might be just the way to extort information out of an intruder.  If this sort of intruder could talk, which of course, he cannot.  He can only scurry and flick his whiskers and . . . leave a trail of tiny poop on my kitchen counter.  That poop is the reason he’s imprisoned in glue under my sink.

But, what would Jack Bauer do?

How does one kill a furry little gray mouse? 

I cannot even smash a bug. 

What would you do?  (He’s not dead here, this mouse.  No.  He’s merely resting.) 

100_0286.jpg

Update:  I wish I had never posted this sad tale of the mouse.  I wish the dumb mouse had never crawled into my house.  I wish I weren’t a grown-up so someone else would have disposed of the mouse.  When I read the comments, I realized that I could no longer ignore the stuck mouse under the sink.  So, with racing heart and shaking hands, I used a dustpan to sweep it into a paper Trader Joe’s bag.  The mouse looked mostly dead . . . he’d not only gotten stuck, but he’d eaten some poison first.  I couldn’t bear to look closely at the poor little creature.  So, he’s in the trash.  I cannot stop shuddering.

We shall never speak of the matter again.