The war is over.
He came limping out right before we left for Thanksgiving, circled a tiny spot in the carpet with a dazed expression, coughed a few tiny convulsive coughs before collapsing and closed his beady little eyes.
God love him, he went for the Oscar.
I felt triumphant and horrible at the same time. I certainly didn't want his poop in my counters and his disease-spreading self on my countertops, but...he was little. And fuzzy. And cute. Was a warm place to sleep and a bit of food to much to give, you heartless beyotch? Of course, this was awaiting us when we got home:
My husband found it in the bathroom. We were spared the death scene, at least.
Gary: Here's the broom. Lemme sweep it up.
Me: Wait! I have to get a picture of this for the blog.
Me: There was another one. Gross.
Gary: Of course there was. If you see one, there's always more hiding.
Me: Don't tell me that! I could have still pretended I didn't know!
Gary: (shaking his head) I'm throwing this out.
Now I'm just hoping the family members will think it was natural causes.