Rats of Nimh

If you need a sweater to declare your species, there may be a problem

The heater wasn't working in my apartment the other night, so as I'm in bed wearing a long sleeve shirt, a sweatshirt, a hat, pants and two pairs of socks and Perry's wearing his winter coat, I hear a rustling in Perry's food bin. It sounds like someone in the bin is dancing to "Oops...I Did It Again" and the food is like shifting around like crazy and making a ton of noise, at which point I determine that there is a mouse in my apartment and he's in Perry's food. Putting aside how 100% unacceptable, alarming and disgusting that is, I get up, yell at Perry to go get him, and Perry just stands there in bed, looking at me blankly as the mouse continues to perform Riverdance. Perry will normally bark if he hears someone in the stairwell of my building or if he sees children on the street from my window, but the mouse that he, a Bedlington Terrier, was BRED TO KILL, is apparently no enemy of his and can enjoy doing the backstroke in Perry's food with no fear of retribution.

I actually can't adequately describe the ridiculousness of the situation - we were both dressed like we were headed to Ellis Island in my freezing apartment, and I was ordering my $120 senior stylist groomed coat-wearing $1,500 dog descended from champions to attack a mouse, and he looks at me like I've lost my mind and attempts to go back to sleep while the rat that his ancestors have been master slayers of luxuriates in his organic food. Time to reevaluate.