So the other day I discovered I have a soul. This came as a shock to me (previously I'd assumed I was a robot; my terrible urge to correct grammar and spelling had me believing I was the physical manifestation of the Word paper clip dude).

My apartment in Ligonier is fairly awesome. It is also fairly unfurnished, because I am broke. I sleep on the floor, which is more comfortable than you'd think. I don't have a dresser, but I do have a rubber ducky, and also a TV I don't watch (which the rubber ducky sits on; it's a hydrophobe, and probably watches Dr. Phil when I'm not home).

That last paragraph was irrelevant. Anyway, moving on...

Actually, not completely irrelevant. To the list of things my apartment has, add: field mice. Yes folks, I have field mice. They live in my freaking walls, and make little scritchy-scritchy noises as they parade their filthy paws into my kitchen, seeking honor, glory, and victuals (usually the bread loaf).

I'm told mice are a common problem here in Ligonier, and that a few traps would be sufficient to deal with them. But I am Emerson, Destroyer of Worlds, and I do not trifle with mere traps. When I set out to defend my territory, I do so in a fashion which can only be described by the word "ruthless."

I purchased traps large enough to break Chewbacca's back. I acquired somber rat poison bottles with all sorts of skulls and crossbones (one of them had whiskers, which amused me). I considered buying an automated gun turret, but eventually decided that wouldn't be sporting, and instead went with some of these fiendish things called glue traps: little plastic panels coated with space-age epoxy. Any rodent who steps on one of those suckers either has to gnaw his leg off, or suffer the consequences.

So, driven by a need to avenge my butchered bread loaf, I set out all my traps one night last week and went to bed. It felt like Christmas Eve. I couldn't wait to wake up, rush into the kitchen, and rejoice in the wholeness of my food supply, as well as the utter defeat of my enemies.  I desired to hear the lamentations of their, er...mice-women, or something.

What actually happened was quite different.

The next morning, I did in fact find I had caught a mouse. It had gotten onto the kitchen countertop and made the dire mistake of trodding directly on one of the glue traps--and, apparently, when this particular mouse made mistakes, he liked to go all the way. The fuzzball had practically leaped onto the thing, and had all but one tiny paw fused to the grim, inexorable epoxy. Even his whiskers and tail were hopelessly held fast. All he could do was flail the one free paw, roll his eyes crazily, and twitch his flanks in an entirely vain attempt to free himself.

I expected to feel a sense of triumph as the power of the dark side flowed through me. I had destroyed my enemy, and left him broken and defeated before me! It was definitely supposed to be the kind of moment when you shout "MUHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" or possibly "AND NOW, YOUNG SKYWALKER, YOU SHALL DIE!" or even "KHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN!" just because shouting "KHAAAAAAAAAAAAN!" is a lot of fun, and anyway it was the only Star Trek movie worth anything.

But, believe it or not, I felt a great shame. All the poor thing had tried to do was survive. He'd violated territory he didn't know any better to leave alone...and, accordingly, paid a price he didn't know he'd owed. Watching him struggle madly, I felt such pity that I considered granting both clemency and freedom. All things which strive to live, I thought, deserve the chance to do so.

With that philosophy in mind, I used my Swiss Army Knife to cut a little of the epoxy away from his hind legs, and then set the trap on the landing outside my apartment door. My conscience settled a bit then, knowing I'd given my furry friend the greatest gift: hope! If he worked hard and defied the odds, life could be his yet!

Of course, this was around seven o'clock in the morning, and my neighbors, when they leave for work at eight o'clock, let their tabby cat out for the day.

Hope is not the same thing as success, nor is probability the friend of possibility.

YOU DON'T KNOW THE POWER OF THE DARK SIDE!

Needless to say, I have slept soundly for days now, undisturbed by scritchings, and my sandwiches have been delicious.