Larry came running downstairs with an empty laundry basket ("I thought it was a bat," he explained, because apparently my spouse is nothing if not a one-man rodent SWAT team); so I left Larry looking for the creature and went to bed early. He came upstairs a short time later.
"Did you find him?" I asked.
"No. But I set 4 mousetraps,' he said, with the resoluteness of an astronaut just back from a tricky spacewalk. "We'll get'm."
My hero. I mean, that's downright sexy, isn't it?
|I've got this, honey.|
Naturally, I let Larry go downstairs first this morning, while I procrastinated as long as I could by showering, doing my hair, etc. When I did come down, I found my beloved sitting in the living room armchair, sipping his coffee and gazing out at the birdfeeder, looking for all the world like a carefree homeowner whose life is not plagued by a perpetual parade of vermin through his personal castle.
"So, did the traps work?" I asked, full of a hope apparently bestowed on me by a good night's rest and the brightness of the morning sun.
"Well, I'm not sure," said Larry.
Picture me here, figuratively grabbing him by his non-existent lapels while shouting, "What? What do you mean, not sure?"
"Well," and here Larry paused for altogether too long a time, "there's one trap missing."
March is a good time of year to sell a house, right?