Rampant Rodents

Lucy’s column for April 1.
Mouselo..1
It’s all the cat’s fault.
Ower Annie, pushing nineteen, incontinent, spiteful, selectively blind, deaf, and slightly dotty, faddy, fussy but only on her own terms, with creaking joints, and the penchant for the hottest spot in the house which comes with old age, brought us a furry little present a couple of weeks ago – a tiny mouse.
As any cat owner will know, these feline pets bring in these little pests, drop them at your feet, whack ‘em round the head a couple of times, and dare them to move. Well, this one moved a bit too quickly for our geriatric, which shows such signs of wonky joints when she walks up the stairs we have been known to carry her. And her prey got away.
We had but a brief glimpse of this scuttling creature, but enough to take in the little brown body, big ears, twitching whiskers, and look of terror on its pretty face. Aaah, the poor, defenceless soul. We left it to the fate which usually ends in death at the claws of a cat. And sure enough, a couple of days later, after a bit of a battle going on outside the bedroom door at 5 am, it was there – dead, demised, a former field mouse. And she sat there with a grin of Cheshire proportions on her smug chops.
We were, actually, quite proud of Annie. For a couple of years now, she’s viewed birds from THEIR safety of her favourite spot on a windowsill by a radiator, where she’s made throaty noises and slobbered a lot, but done nothing like venturing out and going for the kill. It must be five years since we’ve had a moose, loose, aboot this hoose. She’s the gel who sits at the cat flap for hours, then hobbles off and tiddles on the dining room carpet (that’s another story – we’ve just taken it up and replaced it with something bordering on floor boards, which don’t have the same soak-ability appeal).
But it doesn’t end there.
After her triumph on the landing, our one-time garden-sport champion abandoned beds, radiators, and the back of the easy chair where the sun shines through, to keep a vigil in a corner of the kitchen. She sniffed, sighed occasionally, and focused her rheumy eyes on the space under a sofa-bed. Suspicious by now, we put down bits of chocolate, cheese, and cashew nuts, and morning after morning, they had disappeared. With our thoughts on the boldness and bravery of this reluctant rodent, we kept up the soup kitchen for a few days. Well, it was soooo cute to look at, and clever enough to outwit the cat, it deserved a bit of pampering.
But there are no fools like a couple of old fools. And when, in a sudden rush of blood to the head, I decided one night to plump up the cushions on the rather smart sofa ( Hunter’s, Derby, no less), we discovered that the rotten little rodent had chewed up a chunk of the fluff-filled mattress cover. And there, lurking betwixt the mouse droppings, were bits of chewed chocolate and nuts, making it all a veritable cosy home-from-home with en-suite pantry.
With one mouse in our garden graveyard, and another alive, kicking, obviously nesting, we put one and one together and had visions of an entire nursery. Panic struck. Traps were installed. And yes, we caught the little blighter. But just the one. Tempted by cheap-ish chocolate, it succumbed to the bait. But this wasn’t just an ordinary, zap-it, decapitate-it, trap. This was a cleverly-balanced, don’t-harm-it, humane trap. And as the cat hovered at a reasonable distance, I took it out, and released the pampered contents in the garden. Next door’s.
The "virgin" traps are still in position. And there’s a letter to Hunter’s, pleading for a new mattress cover.
end




Springlo…1
Easter-time, along with the traditional fare of spring lamb and spring greens, always involved the annual spring clean – you recall, that time of year when your mothers and grannies could polish off the pattern on the lino, beat seven bells out of the hearth-rugs, lime-wash the outside loo, and give the eiderdowns an airing. Out came the contents of cupboards and drawers, and the whole house was pandemonium for at least a week.
Those paragons of housework virtue, Aggie ‘n’ Kim, are still advocating this annual torture, to which, I confess, I’ve never felt the urge to subscribe, preferring the Quentin Crisp train of thought that, after four years, the dust doesn’t get any thicker. Or, to quote a plaque on my friend Granny Annie Colville’s sitting room wall : "The dust is here to protect the furniture." But the daffy queens of clean have teamed up with Sue Ryder Care, asking spring-cleaners to donate unwanted items lurking in those dim and dismal corners to SRC shops. It’s a commendable idea, and I’m willing to assist any charity.
They start off by suggesting : "Draw back the curtains, open the windows, and let the spring sunshine flood in." Yes, I’ve done that. Now what?