It was a mistake to show myself to such an impressionable creature. She was always going to react; I was nature's predatorial answer to her existence. Of course, she would have a visceral reaction at our first meeting. And now I can't keep her away. She is perhaps the most determined mouse I've ever seen. The most annoying; the most fascinating. Her constant visits to the home I share with my owner were never-ending, and her attempts to get my attention ranged from confusing to insignificant. Yet she persisted, and I'm the dumb cat who has done nothing to stop this from happening.
I can recall first meeting her like it was yesterday, but it was two months ago now. I was reclined on the living room sofa, taking my eighth nap for the day, when I heard a commotion. A familiar squeak that could only come from a certain small animal my owner expected me to catch. My ears pricked as I scanned the surroundings, with particular focus on the kitchen, the source of the disturbance. It wasn't close to see; I growled—rodents terrified my owner, so it would be in my best interests to be more thorough in my search and deal with this potential intruder. I rose to my paws, slinking forward in a methodical approach to the kitchen. The squeaks grew louder with each step I took to the source, confirming my initial suspicions. I was not so crass to indulge in mice, but was annoyed enough to need emotional release. This trespasser would do.
Around the corner, she greeted me. A small mouse, perhaps even the smallest I had ever seen, sniffing around the fridge for a structural weakness to burrow inside. Her fur was a shimmering white, clean for a scavenger, while her body was lithe and feminine, giving me ample assumption to regard it as a 'her' at first glance. The sight gave me pause. The previous mice I would scare off the property would be larger and grungier, often willing to fight me if it meant finding precious scraps of food unabated. But this time, when I made myself known with a short vocalization, the mouse spun around and stared.
She did not run, nor did she squeak, or even tremble in place. She stared. Her eyes betrayed a certain bewitchment, like the mere sight of me astonished her to stillness. I expected it was because of fear, but reflecting upon it now, I'm not so confident.
We remained like that for a time, staring, my face as impassive as hers. Then she scurries away, through the kitchen cat flap leading to the outside. I couldn't help but stay there a while longer, perplexed by that entire non-interaction. How foolish to assume that was the last time I'd met her.
To this day, she frequently comes back to me. No longer interested in food, she spends her time following me around, squeaking to get my attention, and sometimes even bumping into me with her snout. Her small size makes her nothing more than a minor inconvenience, though even I can admit that her presence has made the afternoon slog bearable. But I'm left ignorant of her true intentions. Does she want to be friends? Why? None of the other neighbourhood cats had ever mentioned to me anything about a mouse trying to befriend them, let alone constantly nuzzling up next to them when they sleep.
And what should I do with this mouse's constant visits? Should I go ahead with my initial idea and devour her as a cat should? Even that thought troubles me. I'm too used to her presence to consider ending it in such a barbaric manner. No, I must bear it. She's harmless regardless — "Squeak!"
As if right on cue, I look down from my perched spot on the sofa to see her