There's a mouse. In my house.
He seems to like me whereas I am wary of him*. Maybe because on our first encounter he tried to make me look like a damned fool by running away and not coming out till the wee hours when I pointed out to Chloe; 'look, there's a mouse there!' Before the last syllable had escaped my lips he was gone. Boy, can he move. I'm convinced he has a hoverboard, or at least hovering capabilities built in, as I refuse to believe any creature can move as fast as him naturally.
He sits under my chair eating the crumbs between my carpet tiles (yeah. I live in the 1970's. Deal with it) and I sit atop the chair terrified to put my feet down in case... well... I'm not really sure what 'The Dude' would do (I'm calling him that as he came out of his hiding spot and revealed himself to Chloe in order that he could inspect an ashtray containing the remmants of soft drugs) but I'm terrified nonetheless. The fear is slowly subsiding but I still don't like the idea of waking up in the middle of the night and having something sat there looking at me. My three main fears are:
1. The thought of touching dead things (whether it's a deceased moth or the ashes of my dearly departed great aunt escaping into the atmosphere when I am in the nearby vicinity of her ash-scattering** ceremony),
2. Pigeons,
3. Being stared at.
He is cute. I'm going to grant him that but I think he knows I feel this way and consequently he's taken the authority position in our relationship (as all males are wont to do) as I'll be chatting away telling him to leave; 'Dude, I can't cope with strangers running round my room. Seriously, get out' whilst he ignores me. It's not great for one's self-esteem to be openly and wilfully ignored by something smaller than the palm of your hand.
Still. I guess he IS The Dude. The Dude does what The Dude wants. And what The Dude wants is to make my room smell of mouse. Which it does now.
Great.
*This phenomena is also apparent in babies, although in their case I'm not sure it's that they like me. It's more that they'll stop whatever they are doing - crying, playing, pooing, and just look at me with wide eyed astonishment. I'm starting to think I engender feelings of fear within them but I'm not sure how yet.
** Is that the correct term? I'm pretty sure there's something more formal I could have used there. My mother didn't believe this was a genuine fear of mine until I started getting hysterical that it was a windy day and I couldn't cope with getting dead person ingrained on my clothes. Papa M calmed me down with the comforting words 'don't worry, you breathe dead people in all the time don't you?'. He always knows how to make me feel better.
