This was not a good way to start a Thursday morning.
The dead mouse in question was an actual, literal dead mouse, not a metaphorical dead mouse. I found him, at 5.13 this morning. He had drowned in the downstairs toilet.
This raises so many questions, of which the most intriguing is: how the hell did he get there? Two obvious scenarios present themselves. He could have somehow scaled the smooth, shiny ceramic and dived into the bowl for a spot of late night skinny dipping. I looked carefully, but there was no set of tiny mouse-sized crampons or ropes that he would surely have needed. The other possibility was that this mouse was a daredevil, intrepid little bugger who was scuba-diving in our plumbing and had taken a wrong turn somewhere. But again, I saw no snorkel or aqualung.
I am ruling out suicide. There was no note.
Anyway, I was so traumatized by the sight of this dead mouse in our loo that I made sure to show the children before I fished him out. I shall be interested to see if we get any funny looks from Catherine’s teachers in the next few days. Heaven knows what questions she may be asking them even as I type this.
The episode also put me in mind of a scene in my first book, Working it Out, wherein the hero tried (for reasons too complicated to go into here) to drown a hamster in a toilet bowl. In that instance, the hamster was luckier than our mouse. I would never presume to call that novel “art”, but you know what they say about life imitating…