My oven, which I’d never had cause to use, became home to a mouse.  Whilst others have a Sunday roast in theirs, beef, lamb, pork or chicken, in mine I have the cheekiest of uninvited guests.

Strangely enough, I never had mice before Amy, my cat, appeared.  She was the magnet for them, suicidally, and many have been presented to me as corpses by the ever-watchful Amy, but she can never get them all.  I had no idea how long this one had been in oven-residence, but it was a clever little so-and-so.

            Whilst Amy was very good at hunting down the less wary, and upsetting guests by depositing them in full view, this one found every nook and cranny beyond the reach of either hands or paws.  Amy would wait, fruitlessly, for days in front of the oven, usually falling asleep.  I’m convinced the mouse got used to her being there.

I didn’t!  Repeatedly, I tripped over her in the semi-conciousness of early morning, before work.  Often the mouse would be near the sleeping Amy, and it must have been quite a sight, all three of us erupting with shock, at the same time.

            Weeks passed, and Winter had crept up on us.  Amy had grown bored with the new toy that wouldn’t play.  This was a time of year when cats needed even more sleep, and she’d mostly be found upstairs, curled up underneath the duvet.  I forgot about the mouse, too, toll the day I found it, fat and bright-eyed, contentedly munching it’s way through some of Amy’s food!

            I chased it off, and soon found that it had taken residence in the oven.  Something had to be done.  A powerful trap was purchased.  I scoured the oven out, then set the trap and waited.  The mouse moved out in disgust.  No matter where I set the trap, or what goodies I put in it, nothing happened.

I was tearing my hair out, for I could hear it’s tiny feet scampering behind the fireplace.  It took up residence in the log-basket, as I found out one day when replenishing the fire. It nimbly dodged my grasping hand in it’s shiny-coated escape.  Amy yawned as it flashed past her, boredom and indifference plain.  She wasn’t about to give up her warm spot for anything.

            Traps were set again, but this Houdini of a mouse  simply went back to the kitchen, and the oven.  Cat-food kept being eaten.  Days became weeks, and traps remained unsprung.  Then, as I slept one night, Amy stretched across my chest like a hot-water bottle, we were wakened by the loud snap of metal on metal as a trap closed.

Amy wasn’t interested enough to do more than briefly lift her tired head, before it sank again with a chorus of loud purring.  The wait was over, and the unwelcome guest no longer a problem.  Though I don’t need so much cat-food now, and can use the oven again, somehow it doesn’t seem the same. Life hasn’t got quite the flavour it had, without the oven-dweller.