The mouse

My girlfriend has a mouse. And she now knows, after many years of living in old houses with many cozy corners and crevices and cracks, that ‘one mouse = no mouse’ counts, but she simply finds it a more pleasant idea that they have a mouse than a whole horde.

Her beloved had spotted him first. He often works the night shift, so in the silence of the night, something slipped past him and then he reported it at night. ‘I think we have a mouse’ became: ‘I saw it again.’ After that, the mouse introduced itself to more family members. ‘Mom,’ her youngest girl jumped up and down in front of her, ‘I saw the mouse too!’ And that wasn't the only thing. ‘It had a very fat belly, so I think it has eaten a lot of the poison.’ She puffed away the thought that the mouse had a lot of babies in her belly. And that evening, my friend met her too. She rushed upstairs without taking the dog out for her evening pee and only came back the next morning, stomping loudly. When she encountered her again the next day, she decided to bring out the big guns. Then the good old mouse trap. A piece of cheese, a slice of sausage, and hatsekiedee. Quick work. What do you think? Nothing, zip, nada. My friend complained about it to her beloved. He understood. Mice wouldn't like cheese and sausage. They wanted peanut butter. On a piece of white bread. ‘So I have mice because I might have left a crumb on the counter? But a cube of emmental is too little for her?’ Mice and my friend, it will never be a good match.