Jane and I are coloring in the dining room. I’m trying to draw the yellow poppy in the vase in front of me. She is drawing her million-and-oneth princess.

I hear a strange sound coming from somewhere below my feet, from, in truth, the air return vent. “Sh,” I say to Jane, and we both listen.

Yep. There’s a scritching sound. I look at Jane. She looks at me. “It’s our mouse,” I say and sigh. “Bother. I was really hoping it had given up and left.”

I mean, Doug and I scared it badly enough the night we chased it around our room, I’d have thought the thing would die of a heart attack before dawn.

Apparently mice are tougher than their size would suggest.

“We’re going to have to set traps. That’s all there is to it.”

I tell Doug when he gets home. Fine, he says, we’ll set traps, even though he hates traps. He thinks they’re cruel.

“No crueler than chasing it around with a wok lid and a butcher knife in the middle of the night,” I say.

He rolls his eyes. “We did not have a butcher knife.”

“We should have,” I say. “Then we wouldn’t have to resort to traps.”

But the traps turn out to be unnecessary. Around two that morning, I wake up to the sound of a crash and a scuffle and a low growl.

Doug asks, “What was that?”

I smile in the dark. “I think the cats got the mouse.”

Sure enough, come morning, we see I was right.

Bwahahaha! Game over, mouse.


If you’re new here (welcome!) or if you’re not but somehow managed to miss the first two parts of my mouse trilogy, you might want to read them: Of Mice and Me (part one) and More Mouse Mayhem (part two). I hear they’re mildly amusing.