Should I tell you the mouse story?
Here’s a mouse story. (I have too many of these.)
I was in the basement, switching laundry. Emmett followed me down. No biggie.
Until he found a dead mouse behind a box. And he picked the dead mouse up with his mouth. And refused to let it go.
I am FREAKING out. Drop it! Drop it! I yell, as if Emmett follows commands that well this early in his life. (He’ll do it with a ball if we’re playing fetch. But a mouse? Of course not.)
I remember that there is a box of Mabel’s old things in the basement. With a bag of bones inside. I start throwing bones at him, hoping he’ll drop the mouse and eat a bone. But I guess, to Emmett dead mouse > bone. Because drop the mouse he did not.
Next in his effort to keep his prize, Emmett runs upstairs. I follow, frantically, grabbing a handful of paper towel on the way through the kitchen. He finally drops the mouse. On the couch.
Ew.
Using the paper towels, I pick it up and take it away. No more mouse for Emmett.
On my way to dispose of it, I throw him a mouth-freshening puppy chew, as if to pretend that will take care of the mouse cooties in his mouth. (I know it won’t.)
Let’s just pretend anyways, as he’s a kisser.
there's no place like gnome. 