bloody hell. roomie picked death-traps for the house-guests. enticed them with peanut butter. but she's never home to count the bodies. this second victim met his fate while i was down-stairs, having spent much of the afternoon packing away dry goods, and vacuuming mouse-poo from the kitchen shelves. i came upstairs for other purposes to find him trapped, but alive, bleeding and screaming beneath the wire. so in the end another met his end, but this time at my hand - my tiny hammer, like maxwell's did him in.
it was the dog in the guyanese jungle that i was thinking of (half-skulled, brains exposed and writhing with new life), who begged me with his eyes to put him out of his misery (i didn't then have it in me, i regret it to this day).
thanksgiving is for turkeys.
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Update: the death-toll is now three. Urgh.
But then, I might get hantavirus.
Here's hoping for no flu-like symptoms...
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