To be honest, I don’t know just when the death occurred. Poison is funny like that. I suppose if you knew the precise moment the lethal element was partaken of it would be easier. Yes. It certainly would have been easier.
I didn’t want to be witness to the deed though, so I chose the sneaky and sinister route. Perhaps it could be considered cowardly even, but my reasoning seemed sound enough, and I seriously doubt the poison I was offering would have been accepted anyway, not from my hand.
I left it, disguised and concealed; certain it was appealing enough to be devoured. It was. I know that now. My plan worked perfectly, at least I thought it did, before the smell. I hadn’t planned on him hiding once he felt what he had to have known was death tiptoeing toward his heart. Maybe this is his revenge.
It was hardly noticeable at first, but in this heat, it didn’t take long before the rancid, stomach turning scent of decomposition began filling the room and I knew it would only get worse before it got better so I started searching for the corpse.
To my horror, I couldn’t find it. The bastard found the passageways built into the walls. Passageways I could not enter. I peeked into one, even cutting away a portion of the wall. The smell was overpowering, but I found nothing.
I am quite sure this is indeed his revenge. I tried to get rid of him without resorting to this, I tried. All of my efforts ended in failure and he stayed, taunting me. I had no choice. He had to go, I hope you understand – he had to. I didn’t want it to end like this. Especially like this.
Why couldn’t he have just ran away? None of this would have happened.
I wonder how long his stench will remain here, in my home. MY home. Next time, I will plan better.
So anyway – I wouldn’t let my husband use the sticky mouse traps because, well, how awful are those? Instead of buying the snap traps, still awful, but usually quick, and instead of the traps they can enter and be set loose elsewhere to torment someone far from us – he opted for poison. I told him not to. I told him this would happen and it did.
This effing stinks . . . so bad.
I don’t want mice in my house, but I don’t want their decomposing remains behind my walls either!
I’m pretty sure I’m gonna blow chunks.
We’ve rescued more mice than I can count, BUT, I can only deal with so much.
To the surviving mousies . . . The scratching in the walls, the poo pellets in the cupboard – I gotta draw the line when you poo in my cupboard. I mean really, by my food? Not cool mouse. Not cool at all. Don’t even peek out from under the entertainment center and look at me with those beady little eyes of yours and twitch your whiskers like your fricken cute or something. It’s not cute to crap in someones shoes, dude. It’s not cute to dig effing holes in someones walls. And for real, you scared my dog and no, my dog is not a sissy. Okay, he is, BUT that’s beside the point.
So it’s come down to this, you gots to go. Out. Bye-bye. Adios. Au revoir. Arrivaderci. Ciao. Do svidanya. And if ya don’t, I can’t stop the man-o-the-house from doing what he’s gonna do. Like kill you dead.
Stop crapping in my shoes. Seriously.