Simone's neighbours, bless them, have a woodpile at the side of their house. That woodpile has not been touched in the four years that Simone and her family have lived in their house. At least not by human hands. The pile remains the same grey, petrified pile that it has ever been year after year. Even a call to the city yielded no results.
The problem is this: in the summer, mice can be seen scurrying about the woodpile. A woodpile makes a lovely summer home. However, come winter, conditions in the woodpile aren't so rosy. Simone's basement, warm, cozy and filled with college student tenants with questionable housekeeping skills is everything the woodpile isn't.
"We're hearing mice scurrying around the ceiling," said one of the boys renting a room in the basement. He grinned wickedly. "I'd be happy to catch 'em for you."
So Simone's hubby set the boy up with traps, poison and a stepladder. A couple of days later, the bounty was in: seven mice. Seven!
Simone was aghast.
Seven mice...
Simone still can't decide whether she feels relieved, guilty or anxious about the mice's demise, their pain and suffering or their probable continued existence...
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