Imagine the scene. I'm in my very comfy bed, in a deep sleep, dreaming my usual wondrous dreams. If memory serves, that night it was something to do with Brad Pitt and chocolate sauce. God's in his Heaven and all's well with the world. My DVD burner is functioning well, and soon I'll have enough DVDs burnt to keep me watching until the cows come home. The sciatica is in remission, my letters keep being published in the Sydney Morning Herald, and there's no romantic interest to cock up my placid existence.

Tinkle, tinkle. Growl. "Shut up Buggerlugs. Don't interrupt us."

Tinkle, tinkle. Scuff scuff.

Sorry Brad, back later.

Out of bed, and what greets my bleary eyes but Buggerlugs down by the door, having the time of her life with a very tiny, very shell-shocked mouse. Oh shit, not again!

Sandy to the rescue. Oh God, it's 5.30 in the morning!

Out into the kitchen to find a straight edged container so I can scoop up the poor wee sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie (Oh what a panic's in thy breastie?) An old ice cream container usually does the trick. You can tell I'm an old hand at rodent rescue.

No ice cream container. Everything's round, so I can't get the mouse into a container. It escapes easily, back to the safety of Buggerlugs' paws. I can't grasp its tail, it's too tiny for my clumsy fingers, especially while I'm holding back a thoroughly pissed-off cat. She knows I'm about to steal one of her toys again.
I know, empty out a Tupperware square round, that'll do the trick. Out go the Oxo cubes onto the bench, down I go with the Tupperware, and scoop up the aforementioned beastie with one quick swoop. They never mention this use for Tupperware at their infernal parties.

"Down Buggerlugs. I'll open a tin of Whiskas for you."
Now the mouse is safe, I can take the time to throw my feline creature features out of the back door and grab a dressing gown for the next step in the procedure.

Open the front door, look right, look left, OK, the coast is clear. Take container outside and walk up to the dense shrub where I usually release Buggerlugs' pets. Bend over, pat mouse and gently stroke it and tell it softly, "There, you'll be safe now. Be more careful in future." Upend Tupperware and watch the liberated rodent scurry for cover. Sigh of satisfaction.

"Good morning, Sandy. What on earth are you doing?" Bloke from up the road, walking his dog.

Quick red-faced explanation from me. Glad I put the dressing gown on, that nightie's a bit revealing. Colin smiles, tries not to laugh at the ridiculous behaviour, but as he turns the corner I can distinctly hear him sniggering.

Now to go kill that bastard cat! Maybe replace the lost sign that said, "No pets allowed".

© Sandy Parkinson, February, 2006. Word count 486