Just Grant Me This One

But what you really wanted to know, I'm sure, is the fate of dear little Erekle, whose uncertain disposition troubled my thoughts more than a few times while I traveled. "Here I am enjoying delectable baklava," I'd think to myself, "when Erekle at this very moment, may be frantically trying to loose himself from a trap."

Back at the apartment, I found that a few magazine pages smothered in glue are strewn about the place. I found them, to be honest, because in a stroke of poetic (yet insufficient) justice, I got stuck on one myself. Erekle, naturally, is far too clever to be snowed by such an obvious ruse. But no sign of him.

Today my landlady, Nino, gave me a ring and said, in an endearing fit of pathos, "Your little mouse friend said to tell you goodbye."

I think it's clear what happened.

Offended by the paper-and-glue treatment, he simply showed himself the door and found a house more to his suiting. In the country. On a farm. Where there's lots of room for him to run and be happy.

Alternative interpretations of the foregoing events are emphatically not welcome and would be considered in very poor taste.