I sleep with a woobie. In the cold months. And Hubby doesn’t mind.
What, you may ask, is a woobie? It’s a loaf-of-bread-sized bag of millet or buckwheat covered in a flannel casing. Ours were made by one of my students years ago. Pop one in the microwave for 3 minutes, and you have warmth. Warmth on your lap for a cold drive in the morning. Warmth under your shirt when your core needs heating up. Warmth for cold sheets on a chilly night.
My family had three woobies.
Tonight I found two of them shredded underneath my nightstand, their guts spilled out all over the carpet like puke in a frat house. Know what this means?
A mouse has moved into our house.
Surely my third woobie, my favorite one with black-and-white-and-pink cows against a blue sky — surely this one is saved. After all, I slept with it last night and left it in my bed, under the covers. Safe and sound.
BUT NO! THE FREAKING MOUSE GOT TO THAT ONE TOO!! Chewed up my woobie IN MY BED!! And left some TURDS for me as added injury!!
Needless to say, the exterminator has been called. I’ll show no mercy.