squeaks in the night

I woke up this morning at 3:30 a.m. to the sound of a rustling above my head. After a few sleepy moments, I realized that the unsettling noises were emanating from the big plastic bag where I keep all my food. I had hung the bag from the ceiling to discourage creepy-crawlies from getting in there. As you may have guessed by now, this clever strategy did not work.
I turned on the light, and the noises got louder. I now had no choice to admit to myself that there was something alive inside the bag with all of my comestibles.

Then, all of a sudden, a furry gray blur bolted from the bag, ran up the wall and disappeared into the tin roof. I squealed. I sat on my bed for a few moments, contemplating what had just happened with all the reflective powers I could muster at that hour. My conclusion, if it isn't yet clear, was that a fat mouse had raided my supply of whole wheat bread, peanut-butter and the nutella my sisters sent me for my birthday.

"Ugh. What am I doing here?" I said to no one in particular. "What planet am I on?"

The good news: he only got part of a chocolate bar. And I think I probably scared him more than he scared me.

When I told my friend Ana about the incident, she said, "Well, why didn't you kill it?"
"With what?!" I asked.
"With a shoe."
As much as I hate the little rodent, I cannot imagine killing any kind of a mammal with my bare hands. I am loathe to even smoosh a cockroach. And then what would you do with the carcass? Gross.

Luckily, our cat here is a great mouser.

I have got to get out of this room.