The mice were most definitely stirring.
They had laid traps. Tried to lace pieces of cheese. They had even adopted a cat that preferred to chase the baubles from the tree.
And still they lay there, night after night, hearing them in the walls until the winter sunlight sliced through the darkness.
“What are we going to do?”
A shrug. “We’ll just have to coexist.”
On Christmas morning they came downstairs to find freshly baked mince pies waiting for them.
A smile.
“Wow. They really were stirring.”
A pause.
“We’re not actually going to eat them though are we?”
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