I Hate Mieces To Pieces!

Aaagghhhh. I have to move house. Right now. I found a mouse in the basement. AAGGHH! To be honest you couldn't really say I found it because Lord knows I wasn't actually looking for one. I was downstairs getting a box when I turned round and saw it scurrying around right there in broad daylight as if I had invited it in.
I screamed and shot up the stairs slamming the door behind me. It ran around in circles as if to say "what's the panic?"
I can't stand mice, unless they're pink and made of sugar. I think the phobia started when we first had a cat back in England and I would regularly find 'gifts' of half chewed dead ones on the doorstep. But it turns out I don't like the living ones any more than the dead ones.
I immediately rang Grumpy who sympathetically asked: "What do you want me to do about it?"
"Sell the house for one!" I said. "I don't know. Get rid of it."
"I'll see if I can find a trap," he said, sounding as laid back as Perry Como on valium.
"A trap? Then we'll have a dead one," I screamed back. "Can't we blast them out or something?"
"There's probably only one," said Grumpy. "No doubt it came in when you left the garage door open accidentally the other day."
Obviously it would be my fault, even though I know there were signs of former mice in the crawl space when we moved in.
I'm tempted to spend the rest of the day sitting on my roof screaming "Thomas, Thomas" like in the Tom and Jerry cartoons, but I guess this would be a fairly pointless exercise because I don't have a cat.