Mouse in my shoe

I stoically accept that these days I have to get up at dawn to let the chickens out of their house, but this morning I slipped on my garden shoes to go do the necessary only to find I couldn’t quite get the left one onto my foot. It felt like there was a soft something in there—maybe, I thought, a clean sock had dropped in while I was emptying the washing machine yesterday.

But no. One of the cats—I suspect little Billy, as he was watching intently—had left me a present. That’s right. At 6.15am I found a small (thankfully externally intact) dead mouse in my shoe. Lovely.

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Friday, May 9th, 2008

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