Jack the Tripper has gone missing. Not only has he not appeared, but we have had no tripped traps in the crawl space, within the furnace panel, or in the utility room. Nada. I suspect the $28 murine Gitmo device we placed in the utility room insulted him. He must have decided we were completely boorish to think he would find the trap irresistibly enticing, and so insult his exceptional canniness.
How could Jack know that I had devised an alternative plan, a plan for his deportation and not his demise?
I had actually decided that if he had, in a lapse of exceptional canniness, been irresistibly enticed to enter the murine Gitmo device, that I would gingerly place the device in my station wagon, and take a short but very pretty drive down Evans Road, and release him in a park there. An alternative plan had even occurred to me to drive into the subdivision off Ben Jonson Road along the way, and release him in a field behind one of the McMansions.
But now, Jack’s sociability, and my altruism, are thwarted. And weirdly, I miss him. But he will not make himself approachable so that I might apprise him of my change of heart.