So, we came back late Sunday night from a weekend away to find another mouse snared by one of our traps.

This one was in the pantry, and it had been sitting there untouched for a couple of months. I came in from bringing the last of the luggage from the rental car and Laura pushed plastic bags, paper towels, and industrial cleaners into my arms. "There's something to clean up in the pantry," she said.

She had found it when putting Ella's food supplies away. The trap had caught the mouse right across the top of the head, nearly bisecting the poor thing's skull fore and aft. There was blood pooled a few inches away, as if the trap had jumped upon snapping, the mouse had thrashed hard while dying, or the blood had just flown through the air in a massive gout. Maybe it was all three.

I was half afraid the mouse's head would fall apart when I picked up the trap—the front of its head tumbling free, the back of the head following the limp body to the floor—but miraculously it held together long enough to get it in the plastic bag without having to pick up the body directly. Scrubbing the floor was as pleasant as you can imagine.

Surely there can't have been more than five mice in the house. Right?