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were more mice than tunnel entrances. One huge, fat mouse, about the size of a Chihuahua, turned and saw the dark opening of Butch’s open trouser leg. As it entered, Butch let out a yelp and started to dance like he was discoing to acid rock. But the more he tried to shake the mouse out, the farther up the tunnel it sought safety. When it reached the top of his leg, it climbed to safety where the pant legs joined. When it lodged itself in there at that very critical, private juncture, Butch started to holler as if he would die. He screamed for someone to “... Kill it! Kill it quick!” Now, Butch and Buster weren’t necessarily known for thinking clearly under pressure. At Butch’s screams, Buster reached for a handy, nearby shovel. He wound up like a baseball player planning to knock a ball out of the park. He swung so hard he took Butch’s feet right out from under him. When Butch came down, his head hit the ground first, but it wasn’t his head he was holding as he curled up in the fetal position and groaned. “Hey Butch, did I kill it?” Buster asked. “Did I? Did I?” “I don’t know,” Butch groaned. “But if you did, that’s not the only thing that’s going to die today when I 19