Meeces

A couple of years back, there would be whole months when mornings would reveal the path outside the kitchen window littered with rodent corpses, courtesy of our late young cat, Lulu.  As the kitchen windows are floor to ceiling, this was hard to ignore, and I have been known to refer to it, much to my own amusement if nobody else's, as a mouse-oleum.  At least the dead mice, shrews and voles were usually to be found intact, and with the aid of kitchen roll, a plastic bag and a strong stomach, relatively easily despatched.  Thanks to our small replacement cat, known as The Gitten, for reasons which may become obvious, it is now more like a Texas Chainsaw Mouse-acre out there.  Bits of mouse everywhere.  The other morning I stepped out of the front door, looked down, and was greeted by the severed head of a mouse, looking up at me.  I still haven't found the body.

Mindful of this, when the snow started to come down on Saturday night, I anxiously scanned the path to make sure there were no bits of rodent, lying in wait in order to exact their revenge on my household by getting trodden on and becoming welded to the path, leaving me to lever them off after the thaw with a utensil which would then be consigned to the dustbin - ugh.  There were none.  This morning, the snow has all but melted to reveal three squished, flattened mouse (?/vole?/shrew?/ukr (unidentifiable knackered rodent)) torsos (possibly one of which was once the owner of last week's unclaimed head).  Where did they come from?  And when did they get there?  It only snowed on Saturday night, for goodness' sake.  I foresaw all of this - their ghosts, hovering and rubbing their paws together in glee, awaiting a sufficient covering of snow in order that an unsuspecting foot should deliver the final flattening blow, and yet it happened anyway.

The best laid plans of mice, it appears, gang less often agley than those of (wo)men.