A worrying development

Miff, whose appalling lack of predatory instinct has led to widespread internet shame, as a result of the shocking mouse saga, was discovered today looking excited in the aquarium cupboard.

Sniff, sniff, sniff, went Miff, tail-a-quiver. I went to investigate, and found, after clearing out a pile of plastic bags to be recycled, a small heap of dessicated mouse poo.

Mice are incontinent, one of the reasons you should never be sentimental about sharing your food-preparation area with them. Fresh mouse droppings look like miniature grains of shiny black rice, and are usually accompanied by the pungent smell of mouse wee, which has an acrid aroma that once smelled, is never forgotten. Today's find was crumbling and pale brown in colour, with no smell at all. So I assumed it was old, and a relic of the defiant super-vermin that plagued this house earlier. After the Kitchens Direct endless saga, my living space has been gutted and cleared and I am still clearing up the plaster dust. There are very few places left now for a mouse to hide. Maybe this is a blast from the past; the final calling card of the legendary now-deceased super-rodent. Or perhaps, more worryingly, it is a descendant of his, returned to plague us once more and unleash havoc on our household, so recently restored to relative calm and tranquility.

I brushed, wiped, disinfected and bleached, and removed the plastic bags. I wondered whether I should reset the traps, or whether Fate had presented the indolent Miff with an opportunity to redeem herself. After all, last week she had presented me with a chewed spider that she had caught in the garden, and perhaps this was a sign that she was keen to prove herself as a hunter?

It is more likely though that, coward that she is, she was merely show-boating at the smell of old mouse, much as she used to do when the last mouse - the ex-mouse- was safely tucked away in his hole in the wall leading into the neighbour's sitting room. When the mouse actually appeared and helped himself from her bowl, regular readers will remember, she ran away and hid. Like the big pathetic coward that she is.

It will take more than chewing up the odd arachnid to redeem her shattered reputation.

Stand by to find out whether this is redemption, rehabilitation, or re-run.

There is much to be said for confronting your demons, but it is whether you stand and fight 'til the end, or run away when face to face with your enemy that is the mark of a warrior. Or a mouser.
Or a big soft pussy.

The mouse mystery solved?

I knew that fearless mouse we had in the house (RIP) was special, and now I think I know why. Surely it was a genetic supermouse, bred to feel no fear which had escaped from the lab and living wild and free in North London?

It still doesn't explain why Miff is so rubbish though.

Thanks to Justin and Jim for sending this video ( click)

The final mouse saga installment

The dreadful finale of the mouse saga is here. It got bumped off the top slot by urgent political-bloggery and a promised concert reminder. But the mouse was a bit of a legend, and his antics were followed by hundreds of people over the summer so I think his last adventure deserves to be featured on the blog front page for more than just a few hours on a Sunday.
UPDATE: Calamity Jane has a similar tale with a happier ending

The demise of an unwanted house guest

Since I started blogging again I have had several emails requesting an update on Miff and the shameful mouse saga. (The story started here, and continued here and here.)

As the weeks passed, Miff and the mouse established an uneasy relationship. When the mouse was hiding under the chest or in the walls, Miff would sniff close by and quiver her tail in agitation. When the mouse was actually in full view, and helping itself from her bowl, Miff would run into another room and hide. The mouse had a regular circuit - coming out from the wall by the fireplace, running behind the sofa, trotting through the hall and turning right into the study where it would vanish back into the wall via the cupboard, then re-emerge and scuttle into the sitting room again, zip behind the TV, help itself to food from the cat bowl and then feast on its ill-gotten gains under the chest.

I bought a dozen small 99p mouse traps, baited them daily with a variety of substances - tiny chunks of Snickers bar, ham, cheddar, peanut butter, cat biscuits, (sometimes all at once), and placed them in all the places where the mouse would run, so it had to negotiate an obstacle course of delightful morsels whenever it set off on its travels. I left the traps unset for the first two days, (as per advice that you want the mouse to get used to them and decide that they are safe before you strike). Meanwhile, Miff was put on short rations, so that there were no scraps left for the mouse to steal, and the kitchen was kept squeaky-clean with all food in sealed plastic containers.

The mouse ignored the new food supply and avoided the unset traps, leaping nimbly over the ones behind the sofa and tiptoeing round the one placed in the entrance to its hole in the wall. I set the traps and re-baited them. The next day, the peanut butter and chocolate was gone, two of the traps sprung - but the mouse could still be heard in the walls. Probably laughing at me.

Was this some kind of bionic supermouse? Its brain was small but it was displaying levels of cunning that indicated a worrying evolutionary advantage over poor fat Miff, snoring away on the bed.

I bought larger, more deadly super-traps from the Korean man at the local hardware shop that sells everything you need to wage all-out war on rodents. 'These will kill rats', he assured me, 'very big rats, and squirrels too, if you want.'

The mouse was getting fatter, but it had not yet reached the size of a squirrel. Surely, though it was only a matter of time?

The new traps joined the old traps behind the sofa, behind the TV and in the cupboard. Now the mouse would not be able to jump over them as he ran in the space between the sofa and the wall, unless he was capable of clearing five traps laid end to end in a single bound. (It would not have surprised me, actually, if he had commandeered a toy motorcycle and managed, Evil Kenevil-style to do just that.)

Then we waited.

Late at night, the drama reached its conclusion. Miff had come in from her evening promenade of the garden and was eating her dinner. The mouse was watching her from behind the TV. Emboldened, he began to inch forwards. I watched from the sofa, appalled. Surely Miff wasn't going to let him share her food, or worse still, retreat in defeat?

I took off my slipper and threw it at the mouse in a rage. Miff looked surprised as the slipper landed behind the TV, but carried on eating. There was a vicious-sounding twang and a thwack from amongst the tangle of wires.

I went to investigate. My slipper had startled the mouse, who had jumped out of the way - straight onto the baited Super-Size Rodent Instant Death Trap. The chocolate bait had been hurled into the air and a disgusting smell of mouse gore and poo was emanating from behind the TV. The mouse had been undone.

A dead mouse, recently

I removed his furry corpse, still attached to the trap, showed it to Miff, who expressed no interest, wrapped the dead mouse in newspaper and several plastic bags and put it outside in the dustbin.

When I came back in, Miff was finishing off the chocolate bait and cleaning her paws.

I hope we don't have any more mice invasions, I don't think my nerves can stand it.

Further mouse news

The famous mouse has now been spotted helping itself to turkey whiskas chunks out of Miff's bowl. It was licking its whiskers in satisfaction when I walked in. Miff has meanwhile taken to hiding in the study on a bookshelf rather than face predatory rodents who bully her mercilessly in the sitting room.

I am running out of ideas as to how to establish a vermin-free household. It's a plague, you know, ( hat-tip newshound/prophet of mousedoom Hendo)

I would like to reassure everyone who has been emailing me expressing concern for Miff's welfare, that she is much recovered following the antibiotics course, receiving daily affection and adoration, despite her utter uselessness as a predator, and is losing weight steadily as per vet's diet instructions. Meanwhile, the mouse is putting weight on, and also appears to be extremely comfortable.

UPDATE: The end of the saga

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

Moose loose aboot this hoose!

I got in late last night after doing Radio 5 live Friday 'Up All Night' to find a large brown mouse sitting outside the front door. I waved my foot at him, to shoo him away and he casually walked about a yard away and then hid behind a recycling box. Not very effectively, I could still see him peeping at me and twitching his whiskers. J opened the front door and we hugged, and I came in and we shut the door behind us. And the mouse ran in too, but we didn't see him.

Later on we were sitting on the sofa watching The Daily Show with Jon Stewart and we suddenly saw a slim tail, waving, on the bookshelf, then disappearing behind the sofa. We jumped up and pulled the sofa to one side. No mouse.

'Get Miff!' I shouted. 'It's her moment! Come on fatso! Mouse time!'

Miff is on yet another diet. She doesn't like being on a diet, and is constantly whinging and collapsing on the floor pathetically, and so we assumed she would be thrilled to get her claws on some protein.

Miff was discovered on the bed, paws crossed, eyes closed, like a fat puddle of tabby fur. She did not seem very pleased to be removed and plonked in the sitting room (where the mouse had been spotted) with instructions to get on the case.

She sniffed about and then started to lash her tail excitedly. J and I waited for her to spring into action, eyes darkening, tail rigid, transformed from placid moggy into killing machine. But after a few minutes she gave up and sauntered over to her bowl to look for food. There was no food, so she threw herself on the floor dramatically and let out a long sigh.

We ignored her theatrics, as the vet had told us to do, and carried on watching TV.

A few moments later, there was a commotion behind the sofa. Claws skittering, and a hissing noise. Then thundering feet sprinting down the hall. We leapt up again.

'Go, Miffler!' I shouted excitedly. ' Well done! Get that mouse!'

'Oh, for God's sake', said J, watching the scene in the hall.

'What?' I asked.

The cat was running flat out, ears back, down the hall . The mouse was streaking down the hall too, heading for the bedroom, and freedom, through the open French windows into the yard.

But the laws of nature had been shamefully inverted. The cat was running in front of the mouse. Miff was running away as the mouse chased after her. They both disappeared into the garden. The mouse went left, under the garden gate and into the street, and the cat ran under the garden table, where she sat down heavily, and began licking her paws.

'Your cat is rubbish', J told me, as he headed back inside in disgust.

'She caught a mouse before', I said, defending Miff.

'No, Rachel, she found a half dead baby mouse and sat on it and hummed at it for three hours. You had to finish it off' said J.

'Well, she's ill. She has a temperature, remember,' I pointed out.' I've just had to lash out £100 at the vet to get her tablets'.

'She's crap', said J.' She's an embarassment. She saw a mouse and she ran away and hid'

Later on, Miff put on a great performance of sniffing about behind the sofa again, looking extra-diligent and alert.

J openly mocked her.

I fear he was right to do so.

As I type this, I think I can hear the skittering again of tiny paws.

UPDATE: More mouse drama: Miff's shame continues