The following is an account of my relationship with mice. As a child, it had mostly to do with Mickey and Minnie or Jerry. Occasionally my father would catch a mouse in a snap trap. We were warned severely about the dangers of the traps with, "It will break your finger," a frightful image for me to this day. When the poor mouse was caught, my father would discreetly dispose of it. I never asked where. I did, however, ask to see the dead mouse (because I was that kid) and he let me. It horrified me. I felt so bad for that sweet little thing. My father had cataract surgery when I was a little older. That was in the days when it was a really big deal and he was incapacitated for a long time. On the day when my father was finally allowed to go back to work, we all marched outside to bid him a celebratory adieu. My mom drove one of those station wagons with a third seat turned backwards. My dad had a big silver car with fins. I think it was an Oldsmobile, and it had remained in the driveway which abutted a corn field for the entire time dad was unable to drive. When my dad pulled out of the driveway we all clapped merrily and then broke into hysterical laughter because a gazillion mice ran out from it and scattered in every direction. My dad, not realizing anything was amiss, smiled and waved at us until he disappeared from sight. Now, in the fall, mice usually sneak into our attic, trying to find a friendly and warm home for the winter. My husband is in charge of catching them. I don't ask to see them....Go Figure!