I baited, set, and camouflaged the trap, then went about my business.
No luck through the day and evening, but in the morning, though it was hard to tell of what, the Have a Heart was brimming full.
I approached the trap slowly to not alarm it's tenant, and when I got within five feet, what I saw all punted inside a that trap was what looked to be a 55-year-old female divorcee from Montreal, Canada-all bent up and caught right en inside a that woodchuck cage she was, wearing an above mid-thigh cocktail dress, five inch glossy black heels, and a smile. I knew I shouldn't have shaken garlic and sea salt onto that broccoli.
If I had baited the trap with kale and bean sprouts I'd probably had been staring at a self-conscious American liberal Democrat instead of a Canadian. Don't know which is worse.
I quizzed: "How'd you end up in there?"
"I just divorced my lawyer husband, I got $7 million in the bank and I get $13,000 a month alimony," her mood turned less hopeful. "But because my ex is a lawyer, he scored a fantastic lawyer who is in cahoots with the judge, and she ended up awarding my ex all four houses. I have nowhere to go."
Her mood regained a hint of hopefulness. She purred: "So, what are you doing tonight?"
Her toenails were shellacked crimson red, a color perfectly offset to her supple skin that bore a tone of tan hard to find, or buy, anywhere, anytime, north of Connecticut. Her skin pat, taught, pulled just so across two set, of prominent ankle bones; the skin, drawing inspection up along her ample calves, and over her symmetrically formed thoroughly moisturized knee caps, through on the top of her thighs, and inside the boundary of her hip bones, the area that is the cul-de-sac where real business is done; and my eyes and imagination continued shooting north across her abs, abs that had no doubt been defined through hours of awkwardly forced moves played out in front of garishly gigantic mirrors, abs Zumbaed to the point they'd seemed ready to shout "grab the soft mallets Lionel and play us like the marimba we dream to be," abs cut like gems, numbered; count em; ab one, ab two, ab three, ab four, all full and hard, each baring it's own identity, and look! two more half abs, tucked just below her rib cage, set as foundation to her goopy man-made creeple-peeple breasts, whose tips pointed skyward in the direction of her taught neck, perfect chin, nose, and tumble-weed ball of damaged yellow hair.