of mice and (wo)men

i feel generally unconcerned by skittish mice, or even just the one. i have a thought on one in my parents house, pattering over the central heating piping one summer's day, long before stuart little saw any light shining. blinking at me, it soon disappeared off to greener pastures. no, i am a one perturbed by spiders. writing down the word feels like tempting fate. mice, and other rodents, don't faze me. unless. 

i sit watching a movie, relaxed, drowsing perhaps, until i hear a gnawing sound. alarmingly on edge, i am informing the reader that above my head is PLAIN ceiling and a FULLY timbered down mezzanine. but for space, i presume, between ceiling and wooden planking. i start about, the edina way. is the scratching rodent working its skiving way through the hidden ceiling beams? are our mezzanine days numbered? 

the next day, in full daylight, our charles dickens atmosphere subsiding, i am left with the riddle of how the rodent got up there? more pressingly perhaps, how are we going to unburden stuart the second of its predicament?