We have mice. This is nothing new. You live out in the country in an old house, you are going to have mice that move in every fall trying to stay warm. So we have perpetual war against mice, and sometimes we win a little victory and catch one in a trap.
The first thing I do when surprised by a dead gross mouse a trap is shriek in horror and disgust. Then I look around for Master, who is the designated dead mouse removal expert.
This morning I watched him remove a mouse from a trap, throw it away, then go into the bathroom. I know he washed his hands. He must have. Why else would he go in there? He called me into the bathroom with him. Making his hands shaped like a spider gag he shoved his fingers into my mouth and pried it open.
"Mouse hands!" he declared, most amused by my facial contortions of revulsion.
For that couple seconds it didn't matter if he'd washed his hands ten times, he still had "mouse hands".
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