I'm in the winter doldrums, a bit, and it's a self-perpetuating cycle: I struggle to wake up and face the drippy gray weather; I haven't been to the gym in two weeks; I exacerbate that particular problem by self-medicating with bread. I was truly in a grim, glum mode, this morning. But a chat with Sis made me realize that it could always be worse--they're dealing with rats.
They've caught two, already, in the basement of the new house, with classic snap traps. I'm a little surprised at this, considering that Sis is a big ol' nature sap and once adopted us each an endangered manatee for Christmas. Of course, a big tub-o-lard manatee, floating about dreamily and getting konked in the head by reckless jet-skiing assholes, is much more appealing and sympathetic than...vermin. Sneaking around sneakily.
So. It is Sis's duty to set the traps; then she hovers about in the background while forcing Mr. Sis to dispose of the inevitable result. "Today's catch was a big one," she informed me. "And what was disgusting was that the pretzel/peanut butter bait was stuck in his mouth!"
And I suppose I am a horrible, heartless person, because this announcement caused me to erupt in horrified, hysterical laughter. "He looked really surprised," Sis commented, as I choked and guffawed and pounded my desk. "Like, 'hey, look, a pretz--' SNAP!"
Oh, God. Just think of it, y'all. The poor little filthy bastard just wanted a snack, and here was one, lying right on the floor! The cruel caprice of fate, all for a mouthful of peanut butter. Dude. My mood, by comparison, lifted considerably somehow.
I am just glad that my personal trainer has not set up some sort of punishing mechanism by which she breaks my neck if I abruptly lunge for a chocolate sprinkle donut.