The War on Terror...

...is now being conducted by my compadre Gustavo from the exterminator company and moi.
Gustavo, who after twisting his tongue in English for the better part of 10 minutes, turned out to hail from lovely Guerrero, Mexico, laid down some glue traps, fumigated and put out some yummy poison for my houseguest to savor. The first unintended victim of the glue traps was yours truly, stepping on one and probably screwing up Gustavo's malevolent scheme. In any case, he could not believe I am originally from Mexico; I had to threaten to burst into the national anthem. I am not of brown complexion. I guess he had never seen a blonde Mexican before. He finally believed me and proceeded to hit on me at the same time. He is a sweet guy who assured me that mice don't stink when they die, unless they eat first and then if they eat the poison... you get the idea. He will come back to check up on me and the war on terror in two weeks. (!)
I am now deeply doubtful that I want a mouse to die on the premises. According to my friend Berta, they squeal horribly when caught in the traps. Oy. Vey. I hope it's not bad karma. On the other hand, I do not want to encourage the creature and his friends and family to check in permanently. This is not the Holiday Inn.
My friend Bea, who thinks the most digusting vermin are cute, made me promise I wouldn't persecute the mouse and she would shoo him away very lovingly in the not too distant future. Well, I said I wouldn't kill it (with my bare hands). Sorry.