My chore boots live on the front porch next to the bench when I am not wearing them. They are chore boots. They get pretty manky and don't ever come in the house. Tonight I went out to bring the herd into the barn. Boots are required. (My MIG program deposits lots of high quality fertilizer on the pasture.) As is my habit, I sat on the bench to slide my boots on. I had to move Jag, our black barn cat and chief mouser, out of the way to sit down. I slid the left boot on, stomping to settle my foot into the warm interior. Next the right. As my right foot hit the bottom of the boot I felt a lump. Probably my sock got balled up. I pulled the boot off to fix my socks. That wasn't it. Must be something in the boot. I reached in and touched a small, warm, furry little body. Indignant that Jag had deposited a "gift" in my boot, I glared at him and upended it. As I tipped the boot, reaching back in to shift things to the top of the boot and out, ta cute brown field mouse ran up my arm, glared at me for disturbing its sleep, jumped to porch and disappeared into the yard. Jag yawned, stretched, and curled up in my seat on the bench.
Now you know why we are not winning the Mouse War and why my manky chore boots are on the tray, just inside the kitchen door.