Thursday evening, approximately 10:00 p.m. I’m reading in bed as I have done every night for decades. Above the white noise from the fans, I hear some unexpected noises; things going “bump in the night.” I presume the gingers, Ella and Fitz, are wrestling. When I hear a unique chirping sound, I think ‘maybe they have a cricket.’

Just as I am ready to turn the light off and go to sleep, the noise gets louder. I yell “knock it off!” to the cats and sit up in bed. I see the cats on the floor to the left of my bed. With my blurred vision I see Fitz chasing something along the wall. I can’t see what the something is.

I reach for my glasses, now housed on the shelf to the right of my bed. A lesson learned from the Mouse in the House episode.

I put them on and look back to the left. Now with 20/20 vision, it’s immediately clear that Fitz was chasing a mouse. So much for my cricket hopes.

I’m utter my favorite exclamation, “FFS!”, To be clear, I said the words, not the initials.

Obviously unhappy with the situation – live mouse in my bedroom at bedtime – nevertheless I am relieved to see that this mouse is much, much smaller than the monster from the April episode. (I’m pretty sure that if I had seen that thing alive, I would have run screaming out of the house. It was scary enough dead.)

This one looks like a baby; besides its diminutive size, the fur also looks a bit more fluffy and is deeper gray. The poor thing is clearly injured, its efforts to get away pointless; the cats are clearly enjoying toying with it. Fitz seems to be taking the lead with Ella watching carefully. I hear a hiss or two, as Ella (I think) communicates her displeasure to Fitz. She clearly wants to play.

I watch closely as the mouse moves around to the right side of the bed. There’s more light there and I’m able to film Fitz and the mouse. I realize that something this little could basically get almost anywhere in the house. Under the old doors with their large gaps at the bottom; under the bookshelves, hiding in corners, etc. Ugh.

I’m still sitting up in bed, watching, thinking what to do, texting with my Philly friend and the Catty Club text thread. My friend asks if I can kill it with a broom. The broom is far, far away, downstairs, and would require me to get out of bed. Not happening. Besides, I don’t want to kill it. I just want it out of my bedroom. The cats will kill it. That’s their job, not mine.

Not to mention I feel sorry for the thing. It is limping, disoriented, chirping occasionally, clearly a distress call meant to reach its family located elsewhere in the house. Maybe this incident will help that mouse family understand that it’s not safe here for them.

After I film the video, the kerfuffle moves to the other side of the bedroom. I can’t see what’s happening but I’m not ready to leave the bed. It soon becomes clear that the cats have lost the mouse. I repeat, THEY’VE LOST THE MOUSE SOMEWHERE IN MY BEDROOM!

FFS! Again.

Soon, though, Ella leaves the room and I hear more chirping from farther away. I wait 5 minutes, get up and walk slowly, cautiously, to the door. No cats, no mouse. I promptly shut and barricade the door, blocking the opening at the bottom.

I go back to bed, turn the lights off, and eventually fall asleep.

I wake up the next morning, the barricade safely in place. No feline or mouse has penetrated my sturdy barricade. Phew! I get dressed and go downstairs, mentally prepared to find a mouse carcass somewhere.

But I find no mouse carcass.

An obvious hole in my plan to let the cats take care of business. I didn’t plan on NOT seeing the carcass. I’m unnerved that I can’t find it, but I am totally confident that it cannot still be alive.

Over the next day I notice the cats new interest in the tiny space under my apothecary table in the living room. I have to wonder if that little mouse hasn’t managed to find a hiding spot the cats couldn’t reach. There may be a dead mouse under there. I hope I’m as wrong about that as I was about the cricket…

Saturday evening, I’m sitting on the couch catching up on episodes of Blue Bloods. A loud crash from the dining room prompts me to take a look. As I turn the corner from the living room, I see Fitz furiously chasing a mouse along the floorboards in the dining room

FFS!

It cannot to be the same mouse. (Although I’d bet money on it being a sibling of the mouse from Thursday.) This mouse is not limping and seems much faster. As I retreat back to the living room, it appears that the mouse reaches the safety of the heating system vent.

A few minutes later, I peak around the corner. Both Ella and Fitz are sitting around the vent, watching it intently. Clearly the mouse has made its escape through the vent. (Note to self: close the vents on Sunday morning. Done!)

I text a neighbor, my Philly friend and the Catty Club. Though I enjoy living alone, dealing with these mouse issues requires some form of company – I choose texting. My Philly friend expresses her exhaustion, asks me what I’m going to do about this problem. It occurs to me that I might need to stop texting her about the mice. My neighbor invites me to hang out with her and other neighbors. I accept her offer. I walk cautiously through the dining room, past the cats who are still staring at the vent. No mouse. I escape the Mouse House for an hour or two.

Fast forward to 4:00 a.m. Sunday morning. It’s very warm and sleep is elusive. I suddenly hear more chirping, and a hiss. I know instantly the cats are in the room with a mouse. I sit bolt upright in bed, turn the lights on quickly. My worst worry is the cats jumping on the bed with their prey. As I reach for the light, I tell them ‘don’t bring that thing up here on the bed.’ Ella gives me a look but I giver her one right back. No!

I’m right, they have a mouse. Probably the one from earlier in the evening but I can’t be sure. It has taken a beating and lies still, though its still twitching. Ella doesn’t like the look of Fitz, sitting under the bed, eyeing up her plaything. She grabs the mouse in her mouth and trots off with it, out of the bedroom. Fitz follows.

I barricade the door again and go back to sleep.

Sunday morning dawns hot and sunny. I dress and go downstairs. This time I find the “gift” on the rug in front of the fireplace. The mouse didn’t make it. Ella plays with it for several minutes until I decide she’s had enough.

I do not call the handyman. I am ready for this. I put on disposable gloves. I retrieve the older dustpan and brush from the basement. I sweep that little mouse into the pan and walk it out to the garbage bin.

I have upheld my promise to take care of it myself. I can walk with my head held high. Well, not too high because I need to keep an eye out for mice. I am certain there are more.