The never-ending, lingering, not quite done yet war….

Roscommon, oh dark, oh dark night…

I am awakened by the sound of scrambling feet, small feet, tiny paws, as they scramble across the battlefield.  So attuned to their noise and the destruction and havoc that these tiny feet (or are they paws?  I pause to think.  I wonder if Wikipedia has that answer) can bring that I stay from slumber in hope of bringing the battle to them.

Alas, it is not possible.  I cannot seem to end this war without end, this everlasting battle.  I thought I was victorious.  Traps have been empty and there have been no sightings or visible signs of their existence.  I prayed.  I hoped.  But that was in vain.  The battle continues.

Instead I find the enemy just going underground and becoming sneaky little shits.  Speaking of that, that is part of the evidence that they continue this fight.  Today I saw this in an unlikely place.  I have a sugar bowl with natural organic squeezed by hand and dried naturally cane sugar.  A soldier's life is hard, and I have but one luxury, a small taste of this natural organic sugar for my tea.  As I dumped my first teaspoon into my tea I noticed how "organic" the sugar was.  The sugar was nothing but a minefield of mouse turds.  I think that was just from last night when a daring rebel raid did this.  I kind of hope it was just last night.  I drank a lot of tea yesterday.  Not so much tea today…  Now those sugar crazed hyena-like mice laugh at me in the night.  They laugh!!!

Other evidence shows that the fight will be for the long haul.  I did laundry for my bivouac last week but the tasks of leadership kept me from immediately folding it.  When I returned to that task yesterday and began folding my exquisite 600+ thread count Egyptian natural organic cotton sheets (my other luxury besides the sugar) I discovered the rebel stores.  More than 50 acorns fell from their folds.  They used my clean sheets as a storage depot!  As I emptied the basket of my dainties, I found that they also stored countless more nuts in my luxurious 12 thread count underwear, a fact both ironic and disturbing.  Damn them.  DAMN THEM!

They laugh.  They plot, but I am king of this castle!  I have a checkbook!  I have the directions to a hardware store.  I will fight on!  Beware, mouse friends.  I pledge eternal vigilance and more sticky traps.  Beware of anything that smells like peanut butter or cheetos!

And stay out of my sheets.