I opened the wardrobe door, stooped down to get the paper, and came face to face with… a BEAST.
Now, I love to draw, and I draw a lot. I’m not particularly good, but hey, it doesn’t matter.
So anyway, it was a dark evening, and me and my mother were in our living room. I was peacefully drawing, and she was peacefully reading. My dad was away, fixing up an apartment somewhere, and we were on our own, apart from our pets.
I’d just finished filling a sheet of paper with aimless doodles, and I needed to get another sheet. I kept a stash of paper in my wardrobe, so every time I needed paper I had to go to my wardrobe. So, reluctantly, I went to my wardrobe.
And now we find ourselves back at the beginning:
I opened the wardrobe door, stooped down to get the paper, and came face to face with… a BEAST. Beady black eyes, round ears, quivering whiskers, velvety tail…
Yep, you guessed it: a MOUSE. A MOUSE. A MOUSE IN MY WARDROBE. MOUSE!!!!!!
Now, I must confess, this mouse was gorgeous. Gorgeous with a capital G. And oh, so cute.
I have a soft spot for rodents, Especially rats and mice. In fact, earlier this year, I was campaigning to get pet rats. BUT ANYWAY. Back to the beast. Now, the beast and I were staring at each other for quite a while. It’s safe to say I was in shock, and my system couldn’t take that amount of cuteness, so it went on momentary standby. As my instinct sluggishly crawled in, I reached out a hand to stroke the beast.
By now, the beast’s own instinct kicked in, and it had recovered from the shock, and so it leapt effortlessly into the depths of the wardrobe, perhaps even venturing into Narnia, as far away from the approaching pink sausages as it could get.
My instinct, previously slower than a snail on marijuana, (which could be quite fast, who knows), now hit full speed, and kicked me up the ass. I managed to stutter out the word:
Understandably, my mother was not very happy with me, and I tried, unsuccessfully, to disappear into the floor as she interrogated me.
“Was it right there?” She demanded.
“Yes.” I muttered.
“Why didn’t you call me sooner!?” She exclaimed.
“I was in shock!!” I protested.
And from that day on, it was confirmed there were mice in our home. In fact, on this very day, as I type, my parents are on their hands and knees, taking up the floor, to try and find the nests.
And I learned that, no matter how cute something is, it doesn’t mean it’s nice to live with.
My father recently had a face to face encounter with a mouse, and he named it “Pixie”
He has been acting quite soppy over it.
I think the mice have discovered the art of hypnosis.