Stuart Little

I have a mouse. A mouse that was a wee little lad two months ago. A mouse that has tripled in size. A mouse that must go.

The apartment that I live in? Built in the seventies. Needless to say, there are TONS of entries for bugs and, evidently, rodents. I think Stuart came in when we moved the washer and dryer into the house. That's not the point, though. The point? Stuart is a messy roommate.

He likes to come out between one and two a.m. He will run along the front living room wall. Crawl back in behind our book shelf. Hide for about fifteen minutes. Then dart along the wall with the sliding glass door and make a quick refuge under the entertainment center. He hides there for about five minutes then disappears into the abyss that is my dark apartment. It is, after all, two in the morning. I didn't know where he lived. And, I suppose I still don't. I just know it's not under the refrigerator. I think it's the laundry room.

If Stuart doesn't find his way out of mi casa ahora mismo? I am bringing in my secret weapon. Peanut Butter and Sir Maximus. Max is a mean little kitty. He will play and then kill grasshoppers, moths, and random other bugs that find themselves victim to his cruelty. I have faith that Max will find Stuart within an hour of being here. I just hope I get Stuart before Max eats him. Cause that's gross. And having a mouse as a roommate? Totally not.