Mouse update: Miff shame continues

I am typing a post about Brian Paddick for London Mayor when I hear a yell from J on the sofa in the sitting room.

'The bloody mouse! It's back! Looking at me!''

''Where?'' I say, rushing into the room.

''It's in the fireplace...now it's behind the TV. Right there. By the pile of DVDs.''

The mouse is indeed there, strolling about the book shelves behind the television. It does not look remotely bothered that we are shouting at it with such indignation.

J demands to know where the damn cat is. I suggest that she is likely to be sunbathing. This infuriates J and he rushes off, and comes back with the cat clamped under his arm. Miff emits a strange groaning noise like a pair of furry bagpipes.

''Can you still see the mouse?'' hisses J, crouching, still holding a struggling Miff.

''Yes'', I whisper, pointing behind the TV where the mouse is picking its way delicately over wires, jaunty tail held high.

J reaches to the side of the TV, leans down, and deposits Miff next to the mouse. She lands with a flump, like a heavy beanbag.

Miff looks surprised and indignant as she hits the floor. She does not seem to see the large brown mouse a few inches from her whiskers. Instead she goes straight to her food bowl which is a yard away to the right. The mouse swerves casually round Miff, and runs under the chest where we keep DVDs and and videos. I drop to the floor and squint under the chest. The mouse eyeballs me back. I can see its ears flicking as it blinks at me.

''Right!'' I shout, getting cross at the continued defiance from intransigent vermin. ''Grab the videos! Pile them round the chest! Block off its exit! Get ready with Miff!''

J and I pile videos frantically. When we have finished, we find Miff has vanished. She is discovered back into the bedroom, lying in a patch of sun on the carpet and purring. This enrages me. Miff is petted and adored and generally lives the life of Riley. All we require of her is that once a year she does something useful, and attempts to catch a mouse. I take Miff to task for her indolence. J is tasked with scooping up Miff and bringing her back to perform her feline duty. He carries her back, his jaw set, his back stiff, in a manner that suggests he has a serious plan. In his other hand he carries a long garden cane. He positions himself next to the chest, holding Miff firmly.

I lie on the floor again and insert the cane under the chest. Then I sweep the cane violently from side to side to flush out the mouse, whilst instructing J to remove one of the videos at the corner of the chest near his feet so the mouse has to run out of the gap.

Under the chest, in the almost-darkness, the mouse skips about, leaping nimbly over the stick as I wiggle it. But it becomes increasingly agitated and finally it runs out from under the chest where J is crouching with Miff in his arms. J carefully drops Miff right on top of the mouse. The movement is perfectly executed: Miff does not even need to extend her claws; she could kill the mouse simply by falling on it and suffocating it with her fat spotted belly.

''What's she doing? Has she got it in her mouth?'' I call, scrambling to my feet and spitting out dustballs dislodged from poking about under the chest.

''She's sniffing her bloody food bowl'' says J in despair. I turn my head to see the mouse. The mouse is pausing to stare briefly at Miff, then it trots back to the fireplace, and vanishes into a hole in the wall which leads to the next door neighbours' house.

Miff comes up to me, and rubs her face hopefully against my leg. She blinks at me, looking meaningfully at the empty bowl. Then she lies down on the floor and smiles at us, asking for a belly-rub.

'' You've got to be joking'' says J, shaking his head.
UPDATE: Further mouse shame