We have a mouse. It’s a sad tiny thing that barely deserves to be called a mouse. Just over an inch in length, but a mouse nevertheless.
At first we barely saw him, his presence was a grey blur at the other end of the flat, always late at night. As a sidenote, I established that it’s a he, because in my language mice are masculine (el ratón), so this one quite obviously has to be a boy, if it were a girl, then it would be a rat (la rata). Then he started getting closer and closer and even daring to show himself during day time. The courage! And last night he came to the living room as I played (noisily) with the baby, my husband ate his dinner (quite noisily as well) and we watched telly. He just stood there looking at us, as if it was the most normal thing to do, as if offended that we haven’t been treating him as a member of the family.
I know I’ve been nagging my husband to get a pet for when the baby grows up, but this wasn’t quite what I had in mind.
Living as a mum 