In this house it is a well know fact I'm a sook; softer & squishier than marshmallow. I always weep at the sad part in the movie ~ & the sentimental part ~ & the happy bits. I coo at babies in prams & talk to stray cats that cross my path. I get all emotional at our athletes winning gold at the Olympics, or our socceroos scoring brilliant goals against the Italians [especially the Italians]. I'm also prone to weep when I'm particularly happy.
Being well educated I understand that other people find this more than a little off~putting so we carefully cover it up with worldly cynicism laced with irony & satire & find ourselves very funny indeed; BUT... my house is not fooled. They know mum's a soft touch & a tear at the right moment, a little wobble in the voice, a lip that trembles ever so slightly & down I go like a house of cards. Even Iss knows it! Sad to say even the cat can manipulate me. Actually I don't feel too bad about that. Cats are masters of manipulation.
You need to know what a woos I am or the mouse just doesn't make sense.
It's not even summer yet & our day temperatures are in the high 30's C [high 80s/90sF] with humidity to spare & the whole house has been flaked out under the fans ~ even the cat. Issi barely moves until after 3 pm when he hightails it outside to sprawl in the coolest breezeway he can find & there he lolls until the house cools down enough that I can bring Iss in for the night & shut the house up.
Iss likes to have company so his people make a point of visiting with him periodically throughout the evening because Iss is a splendid host & greets this attention with delighted purrs & chirruped greetings. Thus I pottered outside last evening to chuck my cat under his chin & tell him what a good & splendid puss he is, which is only what Iss expects if anyone goes outside at all. Imagine my surprise when a quite unexpected squeaking emanated from under Iss's nose.
I rushed to turn on an outside light because we have plenty of ground dwelling birds & Iss is a cat after all. Not a bird.
People, I do not like mice. I don't. They are little & furry & they're vermin & they make my skin crawl but oh! The poor little thing! A little grey field mouse with enormous black eyes, barely out of babyhood & crying in high pitched terror while it tried to snuggle against Issi's warm & furry hide. That was one little mouse that had completely lost the plot.
Cat or no cat, mouse or no mouse I couldn't stand it. I scooped Issi up & brought him inside. At least the mouse could die in peace, which it did, but it made me feel better knowing Iss wasn't outside dabbing it with a curious paw just to hear it squeak till it died.