Running Low on Raisins

I have a mouse.

My mouse is one in a series, which I'm pretty sure means I have mice, but I will wait to officially draw that conclusion until it is so obvious that even my denial and delusion won't protect me. For now I'm ignoring them (him). The mice will soon grow bored with my routine so to differentiate their days they will throw a party and crank the tunes; they might bake a cake, and even order a stripper. Some time will pass--just enough so they develop an edge and get sassy. With a swagger they'll distill gin, host a poetry slam, and cultivate psychedelic mushrooms. Only then will I admit they're a problem.

Mark handles the mouse trap: baits with raisins, checks, and empties the $1 contraption on a regular basis. And as this happens he insists the rodent situation is not a problem; a problem is seven mice in one night. We catch only one mouse every few days (about a dozen and a half short of a problem). I believe Mark's assessment because physics dictates it: It is the path of least resistance. Now Mark is gone for what he calls two weeks, but what the calender clearly insists is three, and the least of my worries is fixing the toilet water valve before my mom shows up for the 4th of July. Now I have to figure out how to muster the courage to check the mouse trap and then throw away the carcass. Death is a little gross--even unwanted mouse death.

Actually, I think death is probably exciting. It's decay that's gross.

This makes me think of myself and then of teaching.