It continues to elude Max's completely uninterested clutches, and Max continues to not give a flying fuck.
Last night Jason and I heard something crunching on kibble in the kitchen, along with a metallic clang -- like one of the pets pushed the food and water bowls together while eating.
Except that -- you guessed it -- both of the pets were sitting on the couch, with us. Jason jumped up and cautiously peeked around the doorway, but the intruder was already gone. I proceeded to have a full-body attack of the itching creepy crawlies while Jason checked the humane traps (I KNOW, OKAY) that he'd placed behind the stove at the assumed point of entry.
The good news is that a mouse had gone into the trap. At one point or another. The bad news is that he'd clearly had no trouble CHEWING HIS WAY OUT.
"So, that's that." I said. "We'll get some nice toxic traps that break their backs or fry their brains or something, right?"
He mumbled something while opening cabinets and pulling out casserole dishes or whatever and I went back to the living room.
Turns out? Jason had a plan.
Behold. This was his plan:
For those of you who have no idea what you're looking at (which I imagine is EVERYBODY), you are looking at the cat food dish, hidden under a mixing bowl that has been propped up with a wine cork and weighted down with a sweet potato.
I'm just...gonna sit here for a minute and let you re-read that last sentence a couple more times.
I swear. I SWEAR TO GOD. This actually fucking happened.
After laughing my fool head off and taking some pictures, I opted to go to bed. I mean, the evening could ONLY go downhill at this point, right?
At 4:30 in the morning, we heard -- OH YES WE DID -- yet another metallic clang. A more...forceful sounding one.
I poked my husband. "Did you hear that?"
He had. I poked him again. It was a congratulatory, high-five kind of poke.
At first he said he'd deal with it in the morning, but I worried that perhaps the whole SWEET POTATO thing was maybe not entirely fail-safe, like what if the potato rolled off the bowl and the mouse can like, MOVE the bowl around like a little hamster-wheel and we go down there tomorrow morning and can't find it?
(4:30 in the morning, you guys. And I'm fretting over the mental image of a POSSESSED MIXING BOWL skittering all over my house.)
Jason got up and went downstairs to check his trap. He returned a few minutes later.
"It wasn't the mouse," he reported. "It was Max. He was just sitting there, staring at the bowl, like, what the hell?"
"I'm sorry," I said. "That would have been pretty awesome if it worked."
"But seriously, you've got to let me nuke the bastards next, okay?"
(Sweet Potato Helmet Army Man Says Hold Your Ground! Fire When Ready!)