Number Nine 

Oh, I'm sorry, was I sadly chuckling at the misfortune of an earless rabbit? I should not have done that. Tonight I came home and thought to check one of my more popular mouse traps. It was missing. Whisky Tango Foxtrot?! I looked around a bit thinking maybe I'd accidentally nudged or kicked it. No sign of it at all. Did someone come in here and take it? Once again my suspicions and groundless accusations came to the fore. So, the building super is coming into my apartment unannounced! Or maybe, the sprung trap sprang so violently it jumped behind the file cabinet or may… Holy mother of pearl!

There it was. Some seven feet from its original location with a live mouse trapped in it. Number Nine, as I'll call him, had been captured by the hind leg and dragged himself some six or seven feet, still attached to the trap, until he'd become tangled in the computer cables beneath my desk and could go no further. What an incredible feat of desperate survival, I thought as I rolled an advertising flyer and thwacked the furry little bastard over the head. It was done. Or was it? Again, he squirmed and stirred and attempted to drag himself homeward. Down came the flyer with a mighty tap. The tail flailed again. One more time I cracked its tiny noggin. This time, for the last time. My girlish yelp ended with a satisfied sigh (that sounded wrong but I'm sure that's what happened). I dumped the body in a bag and said, "It's time to take out the trash." Daddy needed a drink, so I went straight to the fridge and opened a new bottle of white wine. My work was done — for now.

Nine mice in eleven weeks, but this one gave me the creeps.