My parents' house is old. My great-grandfather built the house in 1916, one of the first on the street. His siblings erected 3 or 4 other houses on the street as well, the entire family living within a stone's throw of each other. All of these houses still stand, and one - my house - still has direct kin living in it. This all being said, the house isn't in terrific shape. He's sturdy, he's well-insulated, but, inevitably, we still get a few mice sneaking in every year. The other night I heard Little Girl crash into some dishes in the kitchen. Worrying that she had hurt herself, I rushed into the dining room (where she had run), to find her with a little grey mouse hanging from her mouth. She flung the mouse up in the air and chased it across the dining room floor. I screamed and screamed until my father ran in with a big glass jar and captured the little mouse. Little Girl was named a hero and spent the next few days getting constant praise and attention (as if she doesn't get that already). After this incident, everyone seemed to forget about the time my cat Gogo killed a mouse just by looking at it. Though, to be honest, I'm not sure which cat gets more style points for their mousing.