I shared my first studio in Paris with a few mice.
I suppose this is inevitable in a 17th century building, but, nonetheless, I was surprised when the first one made his appearance in the living room area soon after I moved in.
I remember it clearly. I was watching t.v. and he scurried across the room and stopped between the television set and the sofa, looked at me, with some confidence I might add, and then scurried off again.
I, with less confidence, got up and tried to assess the situation.
I called my friend and she came rushing over. With some squeals and much giggling, we cornered the frightened mouse in between two cabinets in the kitchenette.
The front door wasn’t far away so our plan was to open it and somehow push the mouse out the door. But we needed something to push the mouse out with. Having just moved in, I did not own a broom.
Our eyes scanned the kitchen counter and at the same time we shouted with glee, “Of course!”
Lying there, among my many books, was a copy of Beatrix Potter’s The Tale of Mrs. Tittlemouse that we were reading for a class on illustrated literature!
With my friend as backup, I used the book to gently escort the frazzled mouse out of my studio. We poured ourselves some wine, raised our glasses and congratulated ourselves.
The mouse, no doubt, quietly crept back into my flat through its secret entrance.
photos from wikipedia and amazon.