From: Snook (The Elder) at Home

An old friend of mine, John Parry, was recently shrunken to the size of a mouse and, as he’s to be spending the next while in the capacity of guest chez Snook (one, after all, must resign oneself to giving up the excuse of a lack of space when one is dealing with persons no larger than one’s thumb[1]), I find myself faced with a genuine moral dilemma. You see, the cat, Thomas, wants to eat him all the time. Which, by itself, is a fascinating turn of events. John always got along famously with her when he was still, as it were, nibbling the nether end of six foot five. But she seems to have forgotten all about this now that he’s the same size as one of her favourite slashing toys.

And, of course, it’s made me realize that if I also happened to find myself reduced to the size of vermin I should expect no more loyalty from her to me for all those free suppers, brushings, and a singular act of heroism (wherein I rescued her, at great personal risk, from a burning brown tenement building on St. Clair West (that I happened to be napping in at the time)), than Julius Caesar might from Marcus Brutus!

John refuses to be kept in a mouse cage—with one of those jolly big wheels that I, if I ever had the opportunity, would be really very keen on giving a try … So the question is: who stays and who goes? I absolutely love that cat and, really, the best thing that can be said about John is that he still owes me thirty bucks.

I have much to think about.

[1] After all, three cotton balls and a piece of kleenex will suffice him for a bed. If he’s bored I wrap him in toilet paper and flick him across the floorboards, which he seems to enjoy almost as much as I do.