Mouse infestation, clearly.

This one, obviously. It is a fact of life in rural America, and someone has to do it to keep the homes and utilities. Sorry to offend your sensibilities.

I have been known summon the fortitude of a Scottish ancestor of mine, who did not die for the UK despite battle and imprisonment and indentured servitude in the now-States, when I climb my hardest rock climbing problems. Cheers to liberated libertines everywhere.

You had me you fucker. I am in Utah Murrica. Where are you?

Yes. Mice leaving feces in a remote outpost is indeed cruel, when they carry foul viruses and other insidious excretal vectors into my quarters.

This mouse was killed as it defecated in the room where our clean water was made. His name was Robert Paulsen.

Would ye prefer I had mine cat eat it alive, perhaps after toying with it?

Or should it have been live trapped and fed to some mean rude deathplace?

Or maybe I should have let it foul the water for the people depending upon safe water supply.

This is sad. It is not funny. He died for the innumerably immense brotherhood of mice that another mouse of his line might slip past his corpse and sup of mine water before defecating and leaving to procreate. His name was Robert Paulsen.

Some people use The Bucket of Doom. I use a snaptrap as I find it most humane. The Big Raven then eats well in this place and the mice prefer the snaptrap, I always say.

His name was Robert Paulsen and he was anarchist scum and I simultaneously admire his bravado and am glad that he has gone away.