In infant baby mouse killing news...

This morning (or afternoon. whatever) I decided I would actually walk my dog when she whines at my lifeless body under the covers and places her tiny little doggy paws on my face whist staring at me with her big brown doggie eyes and crying just enough to be audible/heartwrenching/pitiful/guilt producing.

Usually I just roll over. 

But today, I was feeling inspired.

So I got up.

Before Maury Povich.
Before the toddler came out trying to escape capture for her mid-afternoon nap.
Before my sister texted me that she’s going to Costco and do I want a chicken because it’s daytime and that’s what people do in the daytime, they go shopping and bring back chickens for the lazy, lifeless lump that lives in their backyard and shares some of their genomes.

Because that’s what people do.

So there I am proudly (this is where things begin to go wrong) prancing through the backyard (where I live) to the house (where the plumbing and running water is), leash in hand, devoted Shih Tzus following closely  circling themselves because they’re so excited they’ve forgotten which way is forward and can’t think of anything else to do other than follow their own behinds without realizing that this just makes them go in circles with the only forward motion accomplished being when I accidentally kick them (thus propelling them forward several feet) whilst tripping over them.

I saunter through the house and out the garage door.  I’m INSPIRED.  Nothing’s gonna stop me, not even the fact that I’m wearing my pajamas and socks with my flip flops. 

That’s how inspired I was.

I was inspired into fashion nonchalance.

And then it happened.

Remember when we were having an infant baby mouse problem?

I had forgot.  And thus, was caught unaware.  There was no helpful sign-a sign I imagine would look something like this:

PSYCHOLOGICAL TRAUMA STRAIGHT AHEAD

I hear it first.

The struggle. The fruitless, fruitless struggle.

Of a mouse.  Stuck in brown goo.

So tiny.  So cute with his long mouse whiskers wiggling (frantically) as he/she (how do you tell?) strained against the goo.

It’s no use baby infant mouse.  There’s no break in the force.

This is what I deserve for getting up before Maury Povich and the baby-daddy dna-test drama.

This is my punishment.