The Case of the Vampire Mouse

Dealing with rodents in the home is part and parcel of life. Way back when Ceres first popped a handful of grains into her satchel, there was a mouse watching her from the shadows and thinking 'A-ha.'* Ever since then, mice and rats have kept us company everywhere we've gone (except perhaps to Marks and Spencers, where they don't encourage that sort of
thing).

You might think that having a cat would put a stop to rodent problems forever, but I'm afraid you'd be wrong. Infestations do tend to be very short when there's a decent moggie around, but they also tend to be rather more frequent as they have a habit of catching mice outside and bringing them in for a bit of a chat and a spot of tea. And then losing them. Witness Number Two Cat sitting on the upstairs landing last week, looking a bit perplexed.

What was I doing again? his expression said. I'm sure I was doing something a minute ago. Was I looking for something? ...oh, never mind. It'll be teatime in a minute.

On Friday morning, Number Two Son pointed out a superficial wound on his big toe, in tones that implied it was somehow my fault (for some reason it always seems to be my fault). I cleaned said toe and advised him to stop running around in bare feet, for the child is a hobbit. It then transpired that the poorly toe had woken him up, and that he had seen a mouse in his
room.**

I checked, and sure enough there were signs of recent mousy activity; the draw-string for his blinds (nylon, inedible) had been nibbled on and there were spots of mouse juice on nearby surfaces. The most notable casualty of the incursion though was that large patches of skin had been chewed off N2S's half-finished model dragon. The skin was a synthetic clay; clearly
this was a pretty desperate mouse. I set a trap with a tiny bit of chocolate in it, and waited for the crack. It generally takes around 20 minutes.

But nothing happened. Odd, thought I. Perhaps mouse is sleeping.

Twelve hours later and with still nary a mouse in the trap, it was time for Number Two Son to go to bed. He was a bit wary about going to sleep with a potential mouse in the room, and I was jollying him along trying not to make a big deal about it - until I swept the duvet off his bed to give it a good shake.

Ah. Mouse is dead, in bed, mafia-style. All becomes clear - the wretched thing must have crept into N2S's bed for purposes unknown, got rolled on, and bitten his toe as a last gesture of defiance. It's not the first time mice have bitten back either - so moggies, beware!



*And unknown to the mouse, a cat was watching it and thinking 'O-ho.'

**Behold the country child, who sees a mouse in his room and waits until morning to alert a grown-up; a similar incident when I was his age resulted in me declaring a state of national emergency, causing my father to come upstairs armed with a shovel, and with trousers tucked into his socks, while our large and highly-trained guard dog hid under the kitchen table until someone told him it was safe to come out.