For those of you who don't know, I've got a mouse in my house. And yes, I know that if I have one there are probably more, but I prefer to believe that I've only got one mouse in my house. Arnold showed up the day after I moved in and despite the number of traps we've set up he has refused to get caught. He has got to be the smartest mouse on the planet. And after living with a mouse for three weeks, I've realized that I've gone through the five stages of grief.
When my roommate Paige first saw Arnold she told us all that he was just a giant bug. She didn't want to believe that it was a mouse, so instead of freaking us out when she wasn't 100%, she told us we had a bug.
When we first saw Arnold run out from behind the TV and into the closet we were furious (and scared). How dare the university give us a house with a mouse in it!?!? What did we do to deserve this?
I called my dad to ask him what the heck we should do about the mouse, and he told me to go next door and offer the boys a case of beer to help catch our mouse. So we literally went outside and asked the first pair of guys we saw if they were doing anything cause we had a mouse. They weren't very eager to help.
After our traps failed to work and we spotted the mouse again, we all fell into a state of depression. I'm pretty sure we all had to hold back from crying because having a mouse running around your house is so upsetting.
Acceptance came a few days later when I suggested the name Arnold for our mouse. I mean I think naming the thing you are trying to catch and kill basically signifies that you have accepted it's existence in your life.