There's a mouse in our house

There is a mouse in our house.

Or at least there was this morning, and for all I know, there's a ring of mice in the floorboards and behind the walls of our house, sleeping on beds made out of matchboxes and sitting on spools of thread for chairs. We discovered that we may have a problem over the weekend, when I was putting some of our daughters clothes away, and I opened up a sock drawer.

Suddenly, I'm staring at a mouse, staring at me. Then he darted deeper into the drawer, at which point I slammed it shut and, if we're going to be honest, I started shouting for my wife. No, it's not what you think. I didn't need my wife to protect me from a mouse. Well, maybe I do. But we also, thanks to my wife's propensity for finding stray animals, have four cats, along with two dogs, and I figured if a mouse was somewhere trapped in my four-year-old's dresser, we were going to make this a family affair.

PETA can drop its plans to write mean letters to me, however; we didn't kill the mouse.