She brought it in the house. So the chase was on. Cleo dove under the sofa. I moved the sofa. She crawled along to stay underneath it. She went one way, I followed, she went back around. Around and around the damn sofa. Needless to say this went on for awhile before I managed to pin her down (I should mention that the entire time she had the mouse in the house she growled at us...like dog growls...like "don't mess with me or I will cut you" growls). She dropped the mouse, which was still moving a bit, much to my horror.
I am not afraid of mice. I think they are cute. I used to have pet mice. But I hate hate HATE having to put an animal out of its misery. I hate making the decision to do it or not nearly as much as I hate the act of doing it, or the thought of the poor thing suffering a long lingering death. But as slow as the poor thing was moving, it didn't appear to have any actual injuries. I thought it had a chance. I put it outside in a wee nest I made in some tall grass and we kept both cats inside with treats and catnip for awhile. Neither one brought him back into the house. But the poor little guy didn't make it. I just went to check on him and he is nearly where I left him. Maybe a cat or dog got to him, but he probably just didn't make it. Cleo must have played with him for awhile before she brought him into the house, so his injuries, even if I couldn't see them, were probably pretty bad.
Ack. I love my cats. But sometimes, they can be real assholes. And I am so not looking forward to these sorts of chases when I am 9 months and HUGE.