Of mice and men

The hens food is kept inside at the moment, safely contained or so I thought in plastic crates. One houses the mixed grain another layers pellets. I foolishly forgot to close the lid, a fatal error on my part. As the next morning when I switched on the light, who did I see staring back at me?

Poor wee sleekit and timorous beastie himself, with his coal black eyes looking directly at me.

I may have been half asleep but I sprung into action, quickly grabbing a tupperware dish to capture Mr Mouse. Secretly hoping that he might have run off by the time I got back.

But no not him.

Luckily I was feeling brave so I scooped him up, took him for a wee walk outside and released the blighter unharmed. He hadn't even had the good grace to move far, overindulgence written all over his rodent features.

Other tales. 

Our household has owned a few pets over the years, first we had Tommy Pal, the dwarf hamster. He was quite a character, and despite being a nocturnal creature, Our Tommy, used to wake up in the morning for breakfast snacks and a bit on human company.

That is before sleeping off his excessess for the rest of the day. It is tough gigbeing a pet in our house. 

After his sad demise, his journey to Valhalla was made via a bonfire in the back garden in a tiny bespoke wooden long boat.

Shortly after his funeral, we acquired two  fluffy replacements to fill the void in our lives. This time another pair of dwarf hamsters, which were given the understated names of Thor and Poiseidon.

Try explaining those names to the vet.

As we had been blessed by the good natured and human loving Tommy, this duo came as a shock.

One was friendly one but one was most definitely not. Maybe the name should have been a sign, Thor son of Odin, named in honour of the hammer wielding deity. associated with thunder lightening and storms.

They quickly lost their fancy show names to be known as either the bitey one or the non bitey one. Again when their time came, their corpses were despatched in the now standard, viking practise of flaming their way to Valhalla.

Rodents get the last laugh.

I had a couple of close call with a mice when growing up which have scarred me for life. Round our house we had a lean to porch. It became filled with a mountain of coats, house plants, wellies and shoes. You had to negotiate it carefully to gain access to the kitchen. It was hardly celebrious and you'd be mad if you wanted to spend a minute longer than you really needed in there.

One day I casually discarded my footwear, leaving the lying on the floor, only to return the next day to put the trusty Wellies back on.

Standing on one foot, besocked toe at the ready I popped my toes in briefly. Withdrawing it swiftly with a scream, as a mouse bit my toe!

Once bitten twice shy as they say. Since then, I have never been able to casually  throw caution to the wind to simply slip on a pair of shoes without a cursory check.

Don't make a mountain out of a molehill. 

Growing up our cats would bring small presents to show their appreciation of the love care and food. One day a tremendous commotion was occurring outside involving our cat and a mole. My mother rushed to the aid of the poor blind creature. How did it react? Well sunk it's not insubstantial canines into my mother's finger.