Mouse 1 – Cats 0

Mouse 1 – Cats 0

I’m sure everyone has heard the advice before. Someone is overheard solemnly complaining that they have a terrible mouse problem and they’re in need of a solution. The response? “Get a cat.”
Well, I’d just like to point out that I have three of the little bastards and that’s my fucking problem.
I’d never even seen a live mouse in the flesh until I lived with cats.

As a child in a household filled with cats (an average of four at any one time) mice were an almost daily occurrence. Useless at killing, the cats would invariably bring in their prey very much alive, releasing it into the house where they then created havoc attempting to recapture their prize.
I’m unsure if this was a result of their assumption that we humans are shitty hunters, or if watching us crawling around frantically on our hands and knees screeching “Where the bastarding hell did it go?!!” was a form of entertainment, but it was a rare occasion when they’d fetch in their prey pre-murdered.

This can’t be said for the Trio – they seem far more accustomed to slaughtering their victims before dragging their tattered corpses in through the cat flap and leaving a scene from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre splashed throughout the house.

Last night then, was an unusual event.
As I wearily packed teetering pots into my overstuffed cupboards, I was startled by the bang of the cat flap – a small brown blob streaked past, Bailey in hot pursuit.
An episode of Tom and Jerry quickly unfolded as a large, plump mouse quickly outsmarted his captor, darting from left to right, before shooting to relative safety behind the kitchen bin.

“BAILEY!” I shrieked, desperate to intervene before he recaptured the poor creature and finished it off but, high on the adrenaline of the hunt, he failed to acknowledge my admonishment.
Wailing loudly and slapping the bin in frustration, he paced back and forth like an addict seeking a fix.

At this point the other two appeared on the scene and began offering their unwelcome input, stumbling over one another as they dashed towards the battleground, shouting their battle cries.

“Jesus Christ!” I howled, waving my arms like an overfamiliar octopus as I tried to quickly create a safe zone around the bin.
The mouse peeped out, clearly aware of its predicament, sensibly choosing to stay out of reach as the boys clamoured and yowled.

After a brief but bloody battle, wailing their discontent, I managed to contain the little sadists in the lounge and began the task of trying to persuade the terrified mouse that a hastily grasped Tupperware was a safe retreat.
Much to my relief it wasn’t much of a challenge and unlike previous athletic mice, intent on giving me the runaround, this furry prisoner was quick to enter the Tupperware and await freedom.

I fled to the safety of the garden and quickly decanted my captive into a shady gap down the side of the shed, where it could take refuge and gather its thoughts after the near death encounter.

As I returned to the house the cats began angrily voicing their disgust, slamming into the cat flap and shouting abuse.
They fixed me with death stares as I poured myself a glass of wine and smugly enjoyed my success.

Mouse 1 – Cats 0

The Mouse

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