Dear Mouse (or is it MICE?!?!?) who live(s) in my garage,
I know you are out there. I’ve found the evidence, and I will never leave chips out there again. (So glad to know you like Fritos.)
I like your kind. I do. Especially the cute little ones you find in cages at the pet store. But to be honest, the thought of you crawling through my house at night, leaving your little germ-filled fecal pellets behind makes me cringe. And shudder. And cringe some more. I know it’s cold. I know it’s still snowing (even in April!) and that forces you to take shelter in warm spaces. I get that you probably have little mouse babies to provide for, and I am not unsympathetic to your struggles.
I am asking you to please stay in the garage. Don’t come in the house. There is lots of dust in the garage that you can use to nest in. There’s even insulation, and a couple of old boots. Use them, please. Don’t come in the house. I don’t want to be forced to put out the traps. Or the poison. They make me cry. They will make you die, and that’s a lose-lose for both of us.
I’ll even spring for a couple of bags of Fritos, and I’ll open them this time, so you don’t have to chew a dime-sized hole through the foil to get to them. (That can’t feel good on the teeth.)
Thanks, little one(s). Remember, the garage. G-A-R-A-G-E. Garage= good, comfort, food. House= bad, horrible, painful death.