Ginger on the Virtues of Small Mice

I always sez that nuffin, nuffin beats a small mouse. ‘Cept me, that is.
Take the other day. There I was, minding me own business,
licking me bollocks on the bed, when ‘E comes in an’ kicks me.
No good reason. It's jus’ wot ‘E does.
’What yer bleedin’ doin you manky ol cat?’ ‘E asks politely,
bootin' me off the bed wiv 'is 'obnail boots like
David Bloody Beckham.
‘E could see purfeckly well wot I was doin’ so why did
‘e ‘ave to arsk? Anyway, there I was, flying through the
air like a flamin' trapeze artist, and the winda ‘appened
to be open. Out I sails, singin' fer Ingland, and I was
just at the peak of my flight, when me mouf met a sparra
at the peak of ‘is.

Co-incidence or wot?
‘Snap!’ goes I an' lands on the dustbin with a mouf full
of fevvas. Shame the lid was off - mustard from the chip
paper made me squall, so the sparra did a somersault out
me gob, and scarpered.

So wot was I gonna do now?
Outside, no dinner.
Rainin'.
Gettin’ dark.
‘Ow was I gonna get back indoors? E'd never let me back in.
But She might...

So I puts my little plan into action. Bit of a genius me.
I finds m'self a little mouse.
‘What’s the bleedin’ use of that?’ I ‘ears you ask. Ah!
That’s where me cunnin' comes in. I doesn’t harm the mouse,
oh no! I takes it tender-like in me mouf, climbs the front
steps, pushes the letter-box open just a tidge, and drops
the mouse inta the 'allway. Then I goes round the back,
cleans me whiskas, and waits.

It don’t take long. All of a sudden there’s a screech from
‘Er.
‘Mike! Mike! There’s a bloody mouse in the ‘ouse! Where’s
that bleedin’ cat when you need ‘im?’
The back door opens and I’m hinvited back in, nice as you please.
‘Get in ‘ere you blasted moggy and do yer bleedin’ job!'
'Er screech would've made a peacock proud.
‘Wot, me?’ says I, all innocent, checkin' to make sure
I's truly welcome.
'Well? Getta bloody move on!' she yelps. So in I slinks,
lookin’ dead furtive, cos that’s wot they likes to see
in a furr-ocious ‘unter.

I creeps along the skirtin’ boards, trackin’ that little mouse.
Course, it runs into the livin room, and that’s why a small
mouse is better than a biggun - On account of the lampshades, see?
A big mouse means you ‘as to leap ‘igher. And there’s nothing
wot gets you thrown out the back door faster than knockin off
a lampshade when you pounces.

And in case you didn’t know, there’s a direct connection
between the size of a mouse and the ‘ight of its leap.
Maffematical see? And the older I gets the less I wants to leap.
That’s maffematical an' all. I’m a maffematical sort of cat.
That’s why I keeps givin ‘em mice. They gives me stuff.
I gives them stuff. An eye for an eye - like that Almighty
Dawg says in ‘Is Great Heavy Book.

She ‘preciates a good mouser, any rate. Once I catch ‘Er little
mouse and hexicutes it, she gives me a saucer of milk and
lets me stay indoors in case there’s another lurkin in the skirtin.
E knows I’m up to somefing, but 'E can’t work out wot. So we
eyes each other up, wary, suspicious, til she gives ‘im 'is
saucer too. Never drinks tea straight from the cup like most
‘umans. Always ‘as to tip it into ‘is saucer and slurp it up.
‘Oo sez cats and ‘umans aren’t alike?