Well the gloves are off, Ladies and Gentlmen.
Max was playing happily with his favourite catnip flavoured mouse (or is it a chinchilla?). First he wrestled with it on the bed, next he cast it onto the floor then practised his pouncing on the landing. He chased it down the stairs and that's where it all went wrong. In his excitement Max forgot that he shares downstairs with a bigger carnivore, nay, an omnivore.
It was not witnessed, but by breakfast the next morning the mouse wasn't damp - it was wringing wet. Wringing wet with what was surely dog saliva. It wasn't even chewed. I suspect Jeff went to sleep with the thing in his mouth, sucking every trace of catnip from the small creature.
Posing the "What's this?" question to Jeff produced the usual pavlovian response: head down, mournful eyes BUT wagging tail. Mrs Doubleu's doing: he knows no-one can stay mad at him for long, and even as he's told off he's wagging his tail for the cuddle that will come after.
Max looked on from the stairs. He was shaking his head in disappointment. The usual refrain:"Why did you have to bring that creature into our house, our home?"
I dried the mouse out. I even flexed and worked it to soften the crusted dog spittle. But the little mouse is no longer Max's favourite. After I'd finished my efforts at restoration he took a few tentative sniffs, turned about in dismay and retreated to his chair, comforting himself by kneading his blankie that Jeff has not yet spoiled.
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