This morning James and I were lying in bed just hanging out. I had already let Picasso out of his kennel and he was under the bed happily grunting and chewing on one of his rawhide bones. A totally normal Saturday morning.
We eventually decided to peel ourselves from the bed and start the day. As soon as James sat up, he said, "What the fuck!?" So that made me sit up, too.
There was a dead mouse on the bedroom floor. A dead, completely soaked with saliva, mouse.
Seriously, what the fuck? I don't know who killed it, either Dracula or Picasso, but it definitely was in Picasso's mouth last.
Since our neighbor's house is abandoned, a colony of mice claimed it. The weather is getting cold; even freezing the last couple nights. I think the mice are going on their annual pilgrimage towards warmer environments. Sigh. I guess that means we need to set more traps. I don't want my animals eating those filthy little things. And I swear to God, if Dracula brings a dead mouse onto my bed, I'm going to have a heart attack.
