Rodent rage

If Dad was convinced that Elvis really had left the building, why on earth would Sinead want to disillusion him?

“Now, don’t be giving him a name, Sinead,” said my dad. “Too late,” I thought. I had already named him Elvis because he had a tuft of fur on his head that stuck up like a quiff. Dad had inherited an old house in County Kerry from his great-uncle Patrick, who had died two months ago at the grand old age of 104. The house itself was beautiful, somewhat rundown but perfectly habitable.

I knew as soon as we drove up to the front of the grey stone building with its imposing pillars that this house was special. It was also overrun with mice and rats.

Dad had managed to dispose of the rats

– I didn’t enquire too closely how – and had turned his attention towards the mice. But some of them were cute, tiny things and I couldn’t bear the thought of them being killed. After all, Dad’s great-uncle Patrick must have lived with them for many years. I’d begged Dad to use humane traps and, reluctantly, he did. They turned out to be a success – most of the mice had now gone, except for the one persistent soul I’d named Elvis.

Sometimes, you’d see Elvis disappearing behind a kitchen cupboard, running along by a skirting board or making his way along a beam in the dining room.

Frustrated, Dad tried to whack him with a broom several times, despite my pleas for him to stop.

“What do you expect me to do, love?” he asked in exasperation.

“Couldn’t we just let him live here?” I said.

“Definitely not! I’ve got rid of the rest and, one way or another, he’s going as well. Anyway, who knows if his wife and kids are here too?”

“Can’t you use the humane trap again?” I asked.

Dad put down his cup of tea and ran a hand through his hair. He regarded me seriously and sighed. “The little devil is too wily for that. I just can’t get him to go in, no matter what I tempt him with. The trouble with you, Sinead, is you’re too soft-hearted. Don’t you want the place to be clean and tidy? They’re destructive little beasts, you know, and they could chew through electrical wires.”

Of course I knew but I couldn’t see the harm that one little mouse could do.

The next day, Dad went out and returned with a basket containing the biggest cat I’d ever seen.

“I know I said I’d try the humane trap but if not, Samson will deal with that mouse,” he said triumphantly. “I got him from the farmer up the road. He said he’s a grand mouser.”

Dad opened the basket and out crept Samson, huge and ginger, with malevolent green eyes. He surveyed the room and in one fluid motion jumped up on the window sill, where he circled and settled down in the sunshine.

Dad looked a little frustrated. “Ah, he’s probably tired,” he said.

Much to my relief, Samson, if he had ever been a prize mouser, must have decided that his glory days were behind him and he turned out to be a gentle cat who had found his niche in life. “What a waste of space that cat is,” said Dad, as Elvis ran in front of him and Samson remained still, simply letting out a huge yawn, as if mousing no longer held any

attraction for him.

The next morning I came downstairs and

into the kitchen.

Dad had already eaten breakfast and was outside working in the garden. Through the window, I could see him taking his frustrations out on the brambles.

I made myself some toast and sat down to eat it, then Elvis appeared from behind the kitchen cupboard. I looked around to check that Dad had not come back in and offered Elvis a corner of toast. His whiskers twitched as he sniffed at it and he started to nibble delicately. Samson stirred himself from his favourite spot and, leaping down from the window ledge, he came to sit next to Elvis. I feared for Elvis’s safety but the two of them were perfectly amicable and Samson showed more interest in my toast than he did in Elvis.

The door banged open and

Dad came in. He stood on the mat and removed his wellies.

“Well, at least the garden looks a bit better.” He regarded me suspiciously.

“You’re not feeding that damned cat, are you? That is without doubt the laziest cat I’ve ever seen.” Samson licked a paw and passed it over one ear before leaping back on to the window ledge and curling up for the rest of the day.

“No,” I said, guiltily.

By this time, fortunately, Elvis had vanished. The next morning I heard an exultant yell. “Look, Sinead!”

“What is it?”

Dad held up the humane trap. “I baited it with a bit of bread and jam and look who I caught.”

Inside the trap, Elvis sniffed and scurried around. “You’re not going to kill him, are you?”

“Of course not,” he replied. “I’ll just take him across a few fields and release him.”

I wondered if Dad really meant it. He looked at me. “I promise, Sinead, I’ll just release him.”

He turned the cage round to look at Elvis. “I must be going soft in my old age, going for a walk with a mouse.”

“What if he finds his way back?”

Dad looked at me in disbelief. “Love, he’s a mouse, not a homing pigeon.”

Later that evening I cooked a roast dinner and we decided to eat in the dining room.

I had set the table with some of great-uncle Patrick’s best crockery and Dad opened a bottle of wine.

“A celebration,” said Dad. “Cheers! Elvis has left the building.”

I raised my glass to my lips but I was aware of a slight movement on the beam above

Dad’s head. Elvis was doing a victory run.

‘He’ll not be back. He’s a mouse, not a homing pigeon’