One night, my husband and I were having dinner in our eat-in kitchen, in our usual places; while I sit closest to the work area, it’s behind me, while my husband, across the table, faces the counter. Suddenly, in the middle of a conversation, he looked up and pointed. “Mouse!” was all he said, and it was about as close as he’s ever come to sounding like a 12-year-old girl. I looked and sure enough, big as life and twice as bold, a mouse was sitting on the counter, nibbling at some stray bits of food. We do have a cat, and he’s a former feral, so while I had no idea how to handle the situation, I was pretty sure that the cat did. I picked him up, ending his efforts to gain access to my lap, and placed him on the counter with the mouse.
There they sat, cat and mouse, facing each other in an intense Mexican standoff. They continued to stare at each other for a minute or two until the cat jumped down, presumably having decided that food in a can is preferable to mouse sashimi. A moment later, the mouse ran away, presumably to laugh himself to death at the ineptitude of the cat. We haven’t seen a mouse since.