I saw a mouse in my kitchen.
I am going to have to kill it, because I have found that we can't cohabit.
I would prefer not to slaughter.
Give you a little leeway, Mouse, a little tolerance, and you run rampant through my cupboards, drawers, shelves, ledges and floorspace, defecating liberally as you ramble. I understand that the odours from the house are delectable, but I put perfectly edible and delicious food into the compost heap. You are free to enjoy it all, and your poop would only help things along.
I understand that my home's attraction now is that it is warm, while winter leers outside. So, you really have to choose warmth or death, Mouse. You have a fur coat, and there are heaps of you - or you can manufacture heaps fairly quickly - so, I can only tell you what I would advise.
I am not going to kill you with bare hands or bare teeth, but with discreetly placed poison pellets, and I understand that your death is not sweet.
Once, when the front of our dishwasher was removed during repair, I saw the skeleton of an adult mouse - mum? - in an embrace with a crouching skeleton child. That still saddens me, Mouse.
Do go away. It's nuclear against spears, Mouse. Retreat and live. Please.