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Wolverines and Mice

Wolverines.  I have never even considered being afraid of wolverines.  They seem too mythical.  Their name sounds like it’s not just one wolf but many small ones.  And we can’t forget the comic book character with the same name with knives coming out of his knuckles.  Now I can add wolverines to the list of Fear and Loathing.

I was just about to go to sleep when what do I hear snuffling near my tent?  You guessed right: A Wolverine.  He must have snuffled a bit of my foot smells because he didn’t stay to chat.  And not to be rude, Wolverine, but you had overstayed your welcome at the first snuffle.
Bad foot smells.  Sometimes they come in handy, as when a wolverine is deciding to eat you all up; and sometimes they attract perversion.  Mouse perversion, no less.

Every morning, when I reach for my shoes, I have to shake mouse turds out of them.  The mouse will eat seeds with it’s tiny hands.  He will keep an eye on the relentless sun, judging the time by it’s arc through the sky.  With his tiny hands he will tap the ground in impatience.  Sometimes I want something so bad, the day stretches before me like silly putty.  All the mouse wants is to climb in my moist warm stank shoe and drop a few turds, and last time he checked it wasn’t anything to call the police about.

It is the same with me.  I just want a giant shoe to crawl in.  I don’t think it’s asking too much.

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