There are many different kinds of screams.
A painful scream.
A scared scream.
A rollercoaster scream.
An I’m-so-happy-to-see-you scream.
The give-me-my-toy-back scream.
And a gutteral, gasping, mouse-just-ran-over-my-hand-while-I-was-scooping-dog-food scream.
When my husband and I lived in Philly, we had an ongoing battle with mice. They pooped on our counters, chewed our Tupperware and got trapped in our trashcans. In turn, we pitched them off of our roof, tossed them in dumpsters and cleaned up their little murder scenes on our kitchen floor.
Overall, I have no idea how many we’ve disposed of, or how many have gotten the better of us, but I’m pretty sure we’re close to even. But it doesn’t make it any easier when I pull out a roasting pan and see a collection of black pellets roll into the corner.
Or hear Sheetrock crumble in the walls as they gnaw our house.
Or almost drop my baby on the floor because I’m holding her while at the same time attempting to feed the dog…
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