I’ve started the mammoth, hmmm, make that colossal task of excavating my apartment. The detritus of about a decade is stifling.

In the course of the excavation, which should be photographed by National Geographic, because there’s a chance I’ll unearth a lost civilization, I have found evidence of a new inhabitant of my space. I think there is a mouse. Fortunately, all of the evidence seems to point to its being a very recent visitor, and I haven’t seen it yet. Of course, that could be because I don’t wear my glasses as much around the house. And, so far, none of my food seems molested.

It’s a weird time of year to be indoors for a mouse. My immediate property is policed by three feral-ish felines, though, who are always trying to get in my backdoor; I might be running a mouse-y safe house. Actually, the cats are not feral at all, but feral is a cool word. I mostly like feral children.

I might think about having a kid, if I could arrange for it to be raised by wolves first. That would rock the house, especially during parent-teacher conferences.

Anyway, I’m torn about what to do about the mouse, because it’s almost a tiny bit comforting to have another breathing mammal around. I’ve dated enough vermin to realize that particular comfort is fleeting, however. Besides, a real companion will be coming by soon enough. I guess I just don’t feel like killing anything these days.