This cat, Blackie, is a fiend and a devil. A terroriser of all the neighbourhood cats. He also appreciates the value of a good mouse. He refused to take the mouse outside, despite me hollering twice as loud because now I was twice out of bed.
Instead, he placed it on the floor and simply stared at me with a look of innocent defiance.
The mouse was perfectly still. It could have been dead. It should have been dead. It had, after all, to this point had a terrible evening sandwiched between two sets of teeth.
But this mouse knew how to bide time. Sudden movements would be a fool's game. It waited for the cumbersome half-asleep animal to shoo away the black beast and attempt a cumbersome capture. At that moment, whoosh, the little bugger skittered across the floor with the speed of a jiggery ice skater.
"Jesus Christ! You little shit!" I yelled. The former in fright and the latter aimed at Blackie who was, after all, to blame.
The mouse went under the couch. I went back to bed. "Take care of it!" I hollered at Blackie, who by that stage was low and ridged, his eyes wide open, his nose under the couch.
When I got up in the morning, both cats were hovering, not by their food bowls, but by a small gap underneath the cupboards next to the kitchen sink. "I told you to take care of it," I said. Both cats replied by moving to their food bowls.
I swore at them both while feeding them. But I had no concerns, no concerns at all, the mouse would be eaten by the time I got home from work.
It wasn't. Two days later the cats were still showing some interest in the gap. And there was a smell coming from where I keep my pots, pans, and toasted sandwich maker and the connecting cupboard under the sink.
By day three I decided to investigate and took all of the pots, pans and the toasted sandwich maker out and put them on the bench. It smelled terrible and there were droppings. Mouse droppings. I sprayed and cleaned the cupboards while I swore at both cats.
Then I saw him. The mouse. That glorious little bugger climbed down off the pipes underneath the sink and looked at me. He then darted underneath the cupboards.
I looked at the cats. How was this possible, I asked them? You have killed a million animals including rabbits who come down from the hills of Sumner and yet this mouse has survived. Inside the house. Looking back, I had an inkling at that point the mouse was special.
I went and bought mouse traps. One would do it, of course, but I bought two. Before I went to bed, I checked them. One had no bait left on it; the other was untouched. I rebaited the one and put them both in the same place where the one had been robbed. The next morning both had no bait.
By this stage the mouse had outsmarted two cats and one human. By this stage the mouse had only just begun.
For three days and three nights I reset both traps. Basically, providing room service. Each time I did it I had to see all of my pots and pans and my toasted sandwich maker on the bench, unable to be put away. The mouse saw it as a Marie Kondo decluttering of his house.
It's impossible for me to describe my frustration at this point. It turned into a madness. On day four I put a small cap of water next to the traps. I figured he might be thirsty. I also wondered if he was missing his family.
By this time the cats would nosy over to the gap if they heard something, but largely they showed little interest. They, too, knew they had met their match.
So, I now live with a mouse. I'm resigned to the idea. At this point if he jumped up on the arm of the couch and started watching TV, I wouldn't be surprised nor would I care. I'd pat him on his furry little head.
My pots, my pans, my toasted sandwich maker will stay on the bench forever.
• Dr Jarrod Gilbert is a sociologist at the University of Canterbury and the Director of Independent Research Solutions.
