Despite appearances, she really is an efficient and ferocious mouser. Just not in the house, it seems.
The Spousal Unit had gone to bed, and I was just about to start a late-night Skype session with the OFKAR when a movement, a shadow in my peripheral vision, caught my attention. Nothing. But then it happened again, and this time I saw the little grey mouse dart under the armchair that I usually inhabit.
Naturally I freaked out a little. In our last house, built about 100 years ago, we went through one winter in which a few mice got inside. I accepted it as part of living in an old house, and besides, our aging cat was sadly clawless But in the 14 years we have been in this house, we have never had a mouse. It felt very much like an invasion.
While the OFKAR watched with great amusement via Skype (and called out helpful statements like put a bucket over top of it), I enticed the Slightly Retarded Kitty into the house and hauled her downstairs to the family room, to deal with this situation, which was clearly her responsibility. Although she protested and tried to leave to go up to the kitchen for a snack, she was intrigued to see me lift up one side of the 800 kg armchair, only to reveal a mouse-free and very dusty carpet. And then she promptly lay down under the armchair.
I could hear the OFKAR snorting with amusement as I tried to shoosh the cat out with one arm while holding up the increasingly heavy chair with the other, in order to avoid crushing the oblivious cat.
Eventually I went to bed, without the SRK having any clue that one of her favourite snacks was cavorting somewhere in the house. Shortly after I fell asleep, a strange noise awoke me, and I recall thinking that sounds like aluminum pie plates.
In the morning, I knew where that sound had come from - the oven drawer. This time, I called in the big guns. With the Spousal Unit armed with a broomstick and with me armed with a mixing bowl, we opened the drawer and saw movement. As we carefully removed roasting pans, the SRK appeared at the screen door, and the Spousal Unit picked her up in a half-Nelson and carried her over to the oven drawer. Naturally, hind legs careening, she freaked out, thinking that we were going to stuff her into the oven.
Eventually, the Spousal Unit and I trapped the critter and he arranged for it to meet its maker, while I washed the hell out of everything in that drawer, all without assistance from the most ferocious mouser either of us have ever known. She still has no idea that there was ever a mouse within the house, and that's why she will never lose that nickname.