I have mice in my kitchen. I know I must kill them so they don't make more mice, and more mice, and more mice, until we're overrun by them. But I cannot.
I've bought traps. Heck, I've even opened the package of traps and read directions for securing the lethal rodent guillotine. But then I think of this happy little fellow, going about his business, which apparently consists simply of pooping in my oven and having a large family, and I think how sad it would be if his multitude of children lost their provider. Then I put the traps away.
Laura took this guy way out into the woods after we used him to entertain us by scaring the cat. (No mice were harmed in the cat torturing session.)
Maybe Danny will set traps and empty them when he gets home.