Sunday, November 19, 2006

My Vietnam

I once heard a recording of Lyndon Johnson discussing the elemental tactical problems of the Vietnam war. The Vietcong, in Johnson's estimation, could lay in a muddy ditch for days waiting for an American platoon to pass by before ambushing them. American soldiers could not mimick the tactic because after a few minutes, "they'll want a cigarette or something."

This is where I'm at with the mice. They know the traps. They know the bait. They know I'm here. I never know if they are here or not, lurking in the corners or off in another building on my block. As soon as I think the mice are gone, they attack, screaming in their little mouse language, hurling home-made grenades at me and blasting away with tiny kalishnikovs. I should take a forty-five in my hand like Forrest Gump and crawl into the mouse network of tunnels, confronting them on their own territory, but on my terms.

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