Mice 2, Matthew 1.

Mice, I have to give you credit. First, only a few days after my trap claimed a victim, you evidently returned the favor by sending an emissary to my kitchen countertop, who proved his presence by pooping there. Nothing too elaborate -- just enough to say, in effect, "Veni, vidi, poopy." I concede that pooping in enemy territory entitles you to a point. And so the game was tied, 1-1.

Realizing that this poopage suggested that an extended campaign might be in the offing, I undertook a reconnaisance mission. I discovered that you were probably emerging from a small gap between the counter and the back of the cabinet, which allowed you to clamber onto the butcher's block that stands conveniently close to said counter. So yesterday evening, I placed a mousetrap there, baited with peanut butter as before. I left. One hour later, I returned, only to find that someone had eaten the peanut butter clean off the trigger without springing the trap.

Now, I admit, I was peeved. I baited the trap again, this time with less peanut butter, hoping to entice you into resting your tiny little paws on the trigger for better access to your meal/doom. This morning, however, you have again humiliated me by eating the peanut butter without springing the trap. Mice 2, Matthew 1.

And so evidently you have come to regard my mousetraps not as instruments of your demise, as I intended, but rather as something more like an all-you-can-eat buffet at Bob's Big Boy, or free breadsticks at the Olive Garden. Not for you will the aroma of roasted peanuts be followed by the swift descending Iron Bar of Death; no, after a quick nosh on peanut butter, you would much prefer to indulge in a delightful digestif of sacs de Ziploc, which I gather you appreciate for its fine qualities as nesting material. (Or maybe as a palate cleanser? You eat my peanut butter and then have the audacity to suggest that it leaves a bad taste in your mouth?)

Fine, mice. Whatever. But recall, if you will, this scene from Conan the Barbarian:

Mongol general: We have won again! That is good. But what is best in life?
Mongolian trainee: The open steppe, fleet horse, falcon on your wrist, wind in your hair!
Mongol general: Wrong! Conan, what is best in life?
Conan: To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of the women!
Mongol general: That is good.

Game on, my furry friends.