When the woman from the pet crematorium asked what to put on the plaque, I had a single thought. Rupert, I told her, who ate a live mouse. The mouse had been inside the house. We had a full army chasing it – me, the kids, a herd of cats – but it had escaped our clutches for a full 30 minutes until, to my horror and delight, I turned just in time to see a scaly tail slip between my dog’s jaws.
I’ve always wondered how long a mouse could live in a dog’s digestive tract. Too long, probably. Rupert lay down for a long time after that.
