Or Mrs. No offense, but I couldn't tell the difference.
We have obvious communication barriers, you being a mouse and all, but I think we need to have a discussion on boundaries. I appreciated you staying outside (to my knowledge) and keeping to yourself up until last week. I'm not going to apologize for Steve trying to flood you out. That's what we do with mice who dig around in our yard. I didn't realize what a vengeful little creature you were, though.
You probably didn't know this, but I have a hard time keeping plants alive. Even in a climate where you can supposedly grow anything at any time of year, I struggle. One thing that I've found that I can do is grow tomatoes.
Uh huh. I know you've noticed them, too. Don't look at me like you don't know what I'm talking about.
Imagine my surprise when one of my three beautiful, tomato-laden plants, after daily watering, began to wilt. When another one followed suit, I got suspicious. Of you. I figured you must be chewing on the roots and killed my plant, so I began removing tomatoes off of it in preparation to yank them out of the ground.
Imagine my surprise (once again) when I lifted it effortlessly off the ground and noticed this:
For a moment I suspected the mysterious plant snatcher who stole my rose plant a few weeks ago, but those edges look awful jagged. It was you, wasn't it?
If you were hungry I would have let you have a few tomatoes. Heck, I would have chopped them up, put them in a bowl and tossed them in a little vinaigrette. And then given you a little fork to eat them with.
Look at them. Look how sad they are. That's about how I feel right now.
At least I have one plant left. You better leave it alone if you know what's good for you.
One more thing . . . what the heck am I supposed to do with these?!
For your sake, I hope fried green tomatoes actually taste good.
Drowning in prematurely-plucked tomatoes,