Rats.

Or should I say, "Mice."? Well...mouse, anyway. There's a mouse at Casa de Crazy. It's not a pet. It's not in the Casa, but rather has opted for mobile home living in Rosy the (Astro Van) Mule. It has chewed papers, and crumbs, and the snacks that used to live in there because I have blood sugar issues and an Evil Genius who doubles as a bottomless pit (the way he eats now, I look toward his teen years with dread for my wallet, comforted in the knowledge that at least we'll get the economy back on track)(you're welcome), and it gnawed the scarf Mum knit for the boy. It pooped on the floor mats, it pooped on the back seat, it pooped in the console, and it pooped on the blankets that live in the back. It has made itself quite comfortable in there, and while I've been hoping one of the (not at all) wild cats would deal with it, I wasn't pressed about getting rid of it with any kind of violence. I was honestly hoping that once I cleaned the van out, the furry feller would find new digs. Instead, he found crumbs in the seat, crumbs under the seat, and a bag of sunflower seeds I didn't even know was there. I decided I had to get a trap. Today, when I went to the store to resupply the cupboards, I decided to get one. A trap, that is. I reached into the console for my cash - the last of my cash, in fact. Guess what else the furry little fucker chewed while he was at it? My forty bucks. Nothing left of it but a pile of greenish fluff. That's irony. I swear I can hear him laughing...