We had harvest mice in the house just after we moved in, having considerably altered it. We both thought we'd fleetingly seen one in the kitchen but not enough to tell where they'd broken in. Hadn't broken a window - but they could quite easily have walked in the door when we'd left it open. Then one night, there we were washing up - Pete at the sink and me standing on his right, drying. To the right of the draining board is a work-surface with a solid side panel enclosing the space under, where the washing machine stands.
I spotted him as he gained the top of the edge of that side panel, and showed his athleticism by gaining the top of the overhanging work surface, ran to the back of it and proceeded at speed along the back till he got to the 'shaft' of the mixer tap which he scaled pronto and then ran halfway along the horizontal 'spout' where he sat down, made himself comfy, wrapped his tail round his buttocks - and proceeded to calmly and efficiently wash his whiskers.
We were absolutely transfixed and hardly dared to breathe! Then we both involuntarily and simultaneously looked at each other, open mouthed. Fatal ! - we both let out guffaws. Micky, terrified, instantly shot off and disappeared behind the boiler. We both collapsed, crying with laughter. Oh dear Oh dear.
Over the next week or so, it became evident he wasn't alone. Pete had to keep getting the washer out, but no - no holes (the waste goes into the sink drain under the plug hole, underneath the sink, not through the wall to the outside drain. But - oh dear, we were now finding a growing number of little dark brown presents so I sourced a couple of Perspex humane traps and a small packet of Cadbury's buttons - no way was I ever going to be a murderer's accomplice!
Success! - so Pierre took his two little boxes and their occupants to a field gate, a few hundred yards away on the opposite side of the (main) road we live one and let them out to play again. He'd already found the ONLY hole where he'd blocked the previous washing machine outlet with cement and repointed it more than a year previously. Nowhere near big enough for any pencil we owned - about the size of a No 11 knitting needle. 3mm? Twice more he did this - choosing different fields each time. Every time - more. Then he said what 'we' would have to do. In my head, I knew this. But not in my heart! Not that they are exactly long lived anyway - but that's got nowt to do with it.
I refused point blank to have anything at all to do with it. It apparently worked - and I cried even though I saw nothing.
At least they had a good feed on chocolate before 'it' happened.
RIP meeces.