Note the cleverly-wrapped page wire. Why? Because of our mouse "infestion" (as E has so humorously neologized). These mice, though tiny, are repulsively abundant. All our best efforts to date have failed to stop them from the swift completion of their appointed rounds. And now, most recently, they have begun to "visit" poor Dr. Frizzle in his home. Last week, A saw THREE of these creatures crouched around his food dish, chowing down, while Dr. F. cowered in his tower room. Why doesn't he fight them off? He's enormous by comparison. But I guess he's just too sweet-tempered, that old guy. So finally, we've fortified the cage, hardened the target, if you will, to borrow from criminal justice lingo.
Yet, just last night, I heard a frantic squeaking. Yes, another mouse had made his way in, through a tiny hole I'd neglected to cover, but couldn't find his way out again. He was terrified, weeping in his little mousish way, while Dr. Frizzle just sat and stared at him. Ugh. Needless to say, after I'd dealt with the mouse, washed out the cage, washed my hands about eighty or so times, soothed Dr. Frizzle with soft croons and caresses (yes, hamsters need these ministrations...), and stopped up the last hole, I felt strangely defeated. What now? A BB gun?