The mouse. 

Whilst quietly reading, or watching TV, out of the corner of my eye I see a brisk movement and spy the small, cute, sleek body of the mouse disappear behind the TV or under the sofa. 

As this isn’t the 1950s I don’t jump onto a chair waving a broom. Instead, I grab a Tupperware box and start dismantling the front room. 

This has been done four times now, pulling out the sofa, pulling out the TV stand and dislodging some of the most terrifying spiders I have ever seen. I am sure one of them had a flick knife. If that is what is hiding behind the TV, and the mouse is happy to hang out there, I am wondering if me and my Tupperware box are going to be enough.

 

As you can imagine this approach hasn’t been very effective, so I brought out the humane trap baited with hula hoops and rich tea biscuits. My other half started with cheese, “like the cartoons”, and I had to burst a major childhood bubble by telling him that Tom and Jerry is not a documentary. 

Every morning we check the trap and nothing. But to be honest I am secretly relieved. I have this thought that I’ll come down one morning and the mouse will be in the trap, and in my dressing gown and slippers I will end up traipsing up the road through my village  to set it free far away from the house. However, as I am walking back to the house, the mouse will run past at speed, nip in the front door and kick it shut squeaking “squatter’s rights” as I am left on the doorstep. 

To avoid this, I hit Google to find out how to get rid of mice humanely. So now the house smells of peppermint oil (apparently they hate it) and we have blocked any likely holes, which are a lot in an 18th century flint cottage.

 

The most laughable advice is ‘get a cat’ as a mere whiff of the cat will see the mouse running for cover, which makes me wonder if Tom and Jerry was actually a documentary. 

Meet Mesha (pictured above), my 16 year old Bengal cat, who in her younger years was constantly bringing me mouse and bird carcasses as gifts, or worse live birds and frogs. She had an attempt at a squirrel once, but soon scooted into the house and the safety of the bed.

But apparently, she has now retired, and whilst she will happily hunt leaves and scary flick knife wielding spiders she is very relaxed as she watches the mouse run past her. Then she looks at me like I am insane as I rearrange the front room trying to catch it, once again.

Maybe this lack of inaction is a protest. She has rigorously maintained her 4:30am alarm clock regime so she hasn’t completely retired all frustrating cat behaviour. Perhaps the quality of the food isn’t up to her standards, the blankets aren’t fluffy enough or the beds not soft enough. 

Either way, I feel I am being mocked by the furry mammals in my house. The cat in her silent retirement protest and by the mouse who shrugs like “what are you going to do?” I wonder if Mesha is giving the mouse back handers when I’m not looking, saying “Keep it up” until her unspecified demands are met. 

So, what do we do about Squeaky McSqueakmas? I figured as he lives here now I may as well name him.

 

I don’t want to go down the route of traditional traps and getting the exterminator in with poison could upset the quite frankly pointless cat. 

I thought I would quickly write this, between the appointments with dismantling the front room furniture armed with peppermint oil and a Tupperware box to explain the tardiness in writing blogs. Hopefully normal service will be resumed soon.