When is a mouse not a mouse? When it's a consortium of frickin' carpenter ants munching through your windowsill, that's when.
My initial happiness about not having to dispatch a warm-blooded creature (and subsequently be haunted by cutesy images of mice everywhere for months) has been replaced with revulsion, though our exterminator fellow (who we kept referring to, accidentally, as the terminator) seems to have done an exemplary job. I believe they are now "in retreat." I was not present for the procedures, but now I get the pleasure of viewing the inside of the wall through many layers of clear tape. My own living ant farm. I do, of course, have a poem about ants teeming and seething on a wall. But the ants in the poem are flying ants, and I don't want to push my luck.