The rabid mouse, the vital gymnast, and the expendable housewife
I was making lunch when I heard Marty screaming in the garage. I whipped the door open to find her standing proudly over the body of a dead mouse. She's an old, overweight housecat with no hunting background and no claws, so I was impressed. Sarah and I went out to inspect the victim, and we had this conversation:
M: Pet it to see if it's still warm.
S: No way! It might have rabies. You pet it.
M: It's ok if I get rabies but not you? S: Well, I'm a gymnast!
M: And I'm just a housewife, so I'm expendable?
S: Well, I guess you're job is important too, but it's not like you're a gymnast or anything.