This time, the mouse was dead. And it wasn't Golum who rolled it around on the carpet; it was Bubba, a normally staid, mostly remote cat. He doesn't "talk" much, he does like to be held and scratched, but he won't sit on my lap. He surprised me.
In order to get the mouse out, I had to roll it through the kitchen with a stick (Are you kidding? I'm not going to touch it!). I had to close the kitchen door until all traces of the critter disappeared. I don't know if the cat ate his prize. All I know is it's not in my house anymore.
I understand that cats are hunters. I just wish they wouldn't bring in everything they catch or kill (including live chickens).
Oh, and the possum came back. I thought I heard voices outside last night, and I went to the back door to see if they were coming from my neighbor's yard. She's been burning leaves and whatever else for two days--the haze of woodsmoke hangs in the air. I went to open the back storm door, and the possum and I both jumped. I think I was the one who screamed. It went under the house. So I'm having to put the boards back in the door to keep it from coming into the house. Who would have thought that "country" living could be so perilous?