A few of you may remember the story of a continuing thread of my marriage, the story of How Mice Are Taken Care Of. You may remember how very grateful I am that my husband is perfectly willing to very promptly remove any mice from our dwelling, usually at the expense of the mouse's life, but how I also wish he might use more conventional means, like, say, a mousetrap. Instead, Whatever Is Handy is grabbed when the mouse is cornered, and that then-bloody appliance/utensil/storage container gets thrown out because I can't stand the thought of using it again.
Well, he's acheived a personal best, and I don't even get a new appliance out of it. This week, work was finally set in motion on the November-kitchen-flood-fix, beginning with a section of new cabinet bases. When the installer pulled out my oven from the wall first thing in the morning, I quickly inspected to see how much of a cleaning disaster it was. I saw something on the wall and my morning-brain just couldn't quite process it. I called Levi over. "Levi," I said. "Is that a dead mouse flattened against the kitchen wall?"
"Whoa," Levi said. "It is."
A near-petrified, perfectly flat mouse, long tail and all, stuck to the wall behind my stove. And then I remembered, sometime last year (I think?) when Eric has chased a mouse around the kitchen and when it had run on the countertop and -- you guessed it -- behind the stove he -BAM- slammed my oven back against the wall.
Well, now we know, he got it.