Mrs. Mouse was worried. Here she was all pregnant and no place in her small home to raise her babies. “I know”, thought Mrs. Mouse., “ I’ll climb up onto the deck at BubbaDog’s house and see if there is a suitable home for my brood.”
Mrs. Mouse climbed the deck and sure enough there was a beautiful hi-rise apt standing there just for her. Mrs. Mouse immediately got busy carrying bits of grass mulch and paper up the inner chamber and into the main suite of the hi-rise apt. She was so proud of its metallic shine and ever so proud that it bore the name “WEBER”.
But not all was well. The landlord, Bubbadog, was a very strict manager. He disapproved of Mrs. Mouse’s decorating design and completely removed her happy nest. Not once, not twice, not thrice, but FOUR TIMES! Mrs. Mouse was growing irritated with Bubbadog. It was bad enough that he destroyed her nest. THEN he started leaving his cardboard trays everywhere that had the stickiest goo on them. Mrs. Mouse avoided them in disgust.
Then one day Mrs. Mouse’s opinion of Bubbadog changed. Why she could believe neither her eyes nor her nose! Bubba was capitulating! He had set out a nice big glob of peanut butter for Mrs. Mouse.
As Mrs. Mouse began munching on the peanut butter she said to herself, “This is going to be the best-SNAP! gwrgkkkk aaaaaakkkkt”
THE END
For a second, I thought you poisoned the Peanut butter and I was trying to figure out what sort of poison causes the -SNAP- noise- I was thinking maybe she convulsed and snapped her neck? Hmmm… Where is Bubba getting these sorts of crazy poisons?
Alas, the little guys never made it into the world.
It was just a misunderstanding. We had a communication problem. I think I finally got my point across though.
Poisons are too indiscriminant. Too many pets and critters around that might possibly be harmed. My first attempts failed at convincing Mrs. Mouse to head for the wooded area behind my house. But with her hijacking my grill, well one should never get in the way of a Bubbadog ribeye dinner. She left me no choice but to take it to defcon level 3!
I resurrect my Zombie due to a continuance of the story. This tale is more graphic than the last in that, unfortunately, little baby meeces were involved.
It is almost 5 years later and Mrs. Mouse’s great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-niece had found herself a nice little Weber to live in.
Bubbadog had plans to refit the Weber with new burners/flavorizer bars/grates and warmer baskets as well as some very juicy ribeyes to sear that evening.
Bubbadog opened the grill cover…
Upon discovering the g-g-g-g-g-niece, Bubbadog let out his mighty war whoop which sounds something like a 6 year old girl shrieking in terror. Much stick whacking and war whoops occurred.
When the dust settled Mrs. g-g-g-g-(you get it) somehow managed to flee (I suspect with mortal internal injuries) with most of the kiddee meeces sans two who fell victim to the war whoops.
Bubbadog doesn’t like to see any animal suffer and regrets not quickly dispatching g-g-g-g-g-. But there just wasn’t any easy way out of this one.
Long ago, there was a Click’n’Clack column where a writer found out the hard way that a mama mouse had moved into his car’s fan assembly and started a family.
He didn’t find out when he started the car. He found out when, the next day, the smell hit. IIRC, he was something of a shade tree mechanic and was able to clean a lot of the bits out, but the mouse family had been evenly distributed through most of the ventilation system. I think the Click’n’Clack brothers recommended replacing whatever could be replaced and steam cleaning the remainder.
This happened to me. A mouse I was bringing home for my python escaped. I could not find him and thought he’d run out through the open doors. The next day, I got in the car to go to work, started it and immediately turned on the AC fan because it was freaking mid June and burning hot. Imagine the sound of a mouse in a fan. I knew right away and was seriously grossed out. But real fun was the smell of a dead mouse inside a car in midsummer. For a couple of weeks.
Good Threadspotting title, Musicat. “Meeses to pieces.” Heh, heh, heh.
Random neurological misfire: I bet “Meeses Pieces” would totally fail at candy sales. Even in a colorful crisp-sugar shell, mouse butter would be much less popular than peanut butter.
I should probably talk to a doctor about those neurological misfires.
Heh, heh, heh.