You probably don't read my blog, but given the ingenuity you displayed in trashing my house during the month of August, I can't be completely sure. Since I have no idea where you are just now -- though you clearly spent some time on
Really, it's not so much that you ate an entire bag of peanuts out of the pantry and then made a nest with the shells in our stove, thus requiring us to discard the entire appliance. After all, we were going to remodel that kitchen anyway, and heck, we can cook on our camp stove this weekend. I can even accept that you appropriated two rolls of toilet paper to make a bed in our linen closet downstairs. One cannot, after all, be expected to sleep on a bare shelf.
But when you so kindly left -- as a sort of rodent memento -- hundreds of tiny turds on the laundry I threw carelessly on the bed before leaving four weeks ago, you placed your dainty ratly toe over the line. It simply isn't done.
You know, Pack Rat, this ain't my first time at the rodeo. And I've gotten meaner as I've aged. But I've been thinking about it, and I've decided to leave you a peace offering. There is a blob of peanut butter in the kitchen -- where the stove used to be -- right next to a couple of dire-looking metallic contraptions.