And then, less than a week later: another mouse. I knew there was a mouse in the dining room again as the cat was on alert and Bram was running around and around the table and chairs frantically sniffing the carpet, intently focused on the hunt. I couldn't find it though, which isn't a surprise given how tiny a field mouse is and the fact that with nothing but period lighting in our house, it's virtually impossible to even see your hand before your face after sundown. Three hours later I found Bram in the dining room, growling his hilarious little helium growl at David's Gibson propped in a corner. I picked the guitar up and sure enough, there was a little field mouse hunkered down behind it, bum against the baseboard, freaking out. I called Griffin down to help me. On went two pairs of rubber dishwashing gloves and out came a little bag in which to place the mouse for its trip back outdoors. I moved the guitar and Griffin grabbed the thing, plopped it into the bag and we both went outside together to let it go. Griffin set the bag down, the mouse came out onto the lawn, briefly looked surprised to find itself out there in the cold, and took off running with absolutely no hesitation around the side of the house, through the shade garden beneath my kitchen windows, up our ancient fieldstone foundation and right back into the house between those stones. It took it less than three seconds and the damn thing was back inside the warm house well before Griffin and I even reached the back steps, let alone got back indoors ourselves. I half expected to see it already up and out of the cellar, back in the toasty dining room, with a very tiny but smug and satisfied look on its face.
Photo courtesy of Mazart on flickr.