By a mouse

My parents keep telling me that I need to find a nice shrewish boy, but trapping the right shrewish boy is way easier said than done.

My mom says that generations of women in this family have devoted ourselves to the taming of the shrew. I secretly dated a hamster once—I couldn’t keep my paws off of him—but my brother ratted me out to my dad.

What am I looking for in a mate? I dig long whiskers and mousy hair. I’m not going to be some guinea pig for his trust issues. He can’t have too many moles, and he shouldn’t litter. He should share my taste in music; my favorite group is the Shrew-Tang Clan. 

And he’s got to be artsy—if he can’t appreciate Rodin, this rodent is rod-out. 

He needs to have ambition, too: My sister set the bar way too high when she married a nice shrewish boy who works for the Federal Burrow of Investigation.

Finding a nice shrewish boy can feel like a real rat-race sometimes. All the good ones are taken, or are total weasels, or are an invasive sort of species. Not to sound cheesy, but I won’t be 23 months forever.