I suggested there is a more adult method of dispatching a mouse. "A mouse trap?" she meekly inquired. I suggested she take the debit card for a ride to Ace Hardware and purchase a couple. "You remember how to get there?" Sniff, sniff. "Up Barlow?" So, she went for a mouse trap.
She has a friendly and handsome classmate who works there. He makes it a point of waiting on her. She hates it, and calls him Bub. I think his name is Devon. "Bub said I only need two," as she dumped four traps on the counter.
With minimal finger snapping, she baited, set and placed all four. And so the day went on. At bedtime, a scream from down there, and I went to investigate. Her mouse (so now it's my mouse!) lay expiring in the corner, dying not of mouse trap, but apparently of severe domestic abuse in the morning.
"You need to finish it off," I said. "Leaving it to die is unfair." She closed her eyes and dropped a two pound bottle of Listerine straight down. That was that, except for the clean up. The mouse body was scooped onto a lovely gift bag and carried out.
Remains were returned to the sewer line replacement project out back. The mouse probably would have led a happy summer life in the back yard if not for the terror of men with shovels digging holes. I'm sure he went straight up the skirting, into a ventilation duct and out in Laura's room.
We threw away the mouse traps.