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“Mom ditched us?” Bob incredulously asked. “But I thought she loved us!”
“I bet it was that damn Tikky cat that talked her into it. I knew he was up to no good,” muttered Pirate. She’d seen that big tomcat staring at their cage, and she knew what cats were like. Shifty characters, although she rather admired how the little female Babycat would beat up Tikky (who weighed as much as two Babycats). There was a lot to be said for having a strong character.
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“I love dis show,” sighs Cuddles, “I mean, look at dose boxes everywhere an the sandwich sitting right where I can reach it! I fink I even saw a bag of chips open on da floor!”
The other does nod and Psyche reaches forward to turn the volume up with the remote.
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People who are “owned” by small animals – and there a millions of us – are love-bound to look after them. Some of us have them as surrogate children; some for security. Others keep working animals – sniffer, guide, police and sheep dogs. So it is probably safe to say that the majority of us love our animals, and that being so, it occasionally becomes desirable to bathe them.
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You’re a what? ‘Er…I’m a mouse judge.’
This is the typical start of a conversation with non-rodent admirers, who gaze at me like I am about to bare my teeth and gibber. The “what” is most pronounced when I am talking to farm people; for some reason, they are not rodent lovers.
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Male mice brawling like dock workers in the back of the van is not a sight with which many people become accustomed, but you can get used to anything.
In 1996, my husband, Andrew and I were living on 35 acres, a few minutes outside the country town of Boonah in southeast Queensland, Australia.
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