And then, it happened.
I spotted a movement out of the corner of my eye. And it didn't look like a cherub.
I sat guard with the barrel pointed towards the pantry until my husband got home. I don't know why I actually had the thing -- it's not like even in my most hysterical moment I would have actually shot a hole in my floor to stop a rabid rodent. But it did make me feel better for that agonizing eternity while I kept vigil.
After he got home he insisted I relinquish the death-grip on the firearm, he grabbed his own favorite weapon (a baseball bat), and we embarked upon a futile search for the vermin. We gave up after a while, set up peanut butter loaded traps and went to bed.
Sunday evening, amidst the blackest watches of the night (obviously I couldn't sleep with the thought of Fievel scurrying over my toes), there was a loud SNAP! My husband darted awake and gleefully ran out to declare triumph... but it was not to be. Trap snapped, dexterous fugitive with peanut butter breath still on the loose.
Two days passed and our traps were quiet and still.
Yesterday I was peeling a cucumber for our dinner salad and saw a pink yarn underneath a flipped trap by the refrigerator. "That's strange," I thought as I inspected closer.