Poor Old Mr Nibbles

While you were fussing over Mr. Nibbles, I was planning your downfall from a desiccated corner. You never noticed me.

The scent of warm hay and hamster pellets drifting from his wheel was a torment, but also a comforting bubble. Mr. Nibbles is as innocent as a newborn lamb. Even before I got stuck in this box, I had watched, thinking I was far cleverer than either of you. His life stinks too, albeit in a different way: all that endless spinning, no hope of escape—with nothing but a wheel for entertainment.

Really, when you let him out, he should have nipped your finger, not let you stroke him, the docile fool. But you tamed him well.

Well, you can’t tame me.

I can’t see you. Or… can you see me? Through this hole? No. You can’t.

I can’t see you, but I know you—and I know exactly how to turn the tables. Why would anyone even want to see you? Hearing you clump around with your cup of disgusting tea and that tannin-stained mud you brew in the cracked, brown-rimmed pot—that’s bad enough. I can smell the whiff of your skin on everything. Clumsy, giant, disgusting creature.

I should have known better—you love to play. You enticed me.

Even in here, I hear you, stomping about. By now, you must be on your way to bed. Only yesterday, my eyes caught the whistle of your breath and the scrape of your dead skin across the sheets. When I came across you lying there with the lamp still on, mouth open, the noise was deafening. No wonder you don’t have company.

I was about to scoot across and taste the crumbs fallen from your plate when the old heating system kicked in. I darted back into hiding.

Only last night I heard you cursing and shouting after falling down the bottom two stairs, tripping over some obstacle. Too obsessed with whatever was winding you up to pay attention to the shadows.

You may have your problems, but how could you do this? To me.

I’m angry at myself for falling for it. I’m used to tight spaces, but this is insane. You’ve got to be kidding me. It must be morning now. A hint of light through the air holes—my night vision isn’t great.

Ooooh, gross. I can smell my own fear. You’d think I’d know by now. Curiosity got the better of me. I just had to go for the food—it smelled sweet, fatty, and enticing—even if the scent of your hands made me feel sick.

Then — BIG SLAM.

Heart thumping. Wincing. Sealed in. Cramped. Packed like one of those sardines you like to mash on toast.

“There! Gotcha!” You said it like it was a great achievement.

Now. Keep calm.

Remembering my old pal Vinnie’s words got me through the worst of last night. I hadn’t seen him for a while. All that talk about stress and tail-chasing used to irk me. Now I wish I’d listened. My pulse thuds in my ears like a drum, but I’m in no position to kick myself—let alone anyone else. I’m in no position to help Gizelle. Not even if I were out.

I watched you last week—the great man of the house—groaning as you crouched to seal up the skirting board behind the boiler. Cutting off her favourite route to the kitchen. I haven’t seen her since you plastered it over.

The night before last, I caught the scent of her desperation. High-pitched cries. Frantic pawing at the hardened stone. What could I do? You hummed your favourite tunes while you worked, burying her alive.

Hateful. The fear for her is worse than the stink of this box.

I found her first in a deserted woodshed—those big, liquid-black eyes. Our scents mingled in the dust, watched by incurious bats hanging upside-down from the rafters. Now, I wake hot, my coat matted with the damp of my own breath. When I turn, all I feel are walls and cold, unforgiving plastic.

I need air. Real air.

You’ll be up soon. Then what? Think.

This box—plastic. Not a snap trap, then. Vinnie always said those were the quickest. A mercy of sorts. He’d seen what poison did to Old Mosley. Said finding him twisted on the floor was the worst thing he’d ever seen.

No. This is what they call a humane trap.

“They’re having a laugh calling it that,” Vinnie used to squeak. “What if they forget to release us? What about the little ones left behind?”

If we weren’t so curious, you’d never get away with it. Our noses twitch when something smells tempting. We’re suckers for a good snack. Like most lucky things, I chanced upon this house—crumbs everywhere. I was lucky.

Until now.

I try not to think about Gizelle. She’s bright, but some things you can’t avoid. Maybe she’s already scampering down the guttering. The thought of her truly sealed away—no. That part is a deeper trap than this plastic coffin.

Shush! Something’s happening. I hear coughing. A wet, rattling sound.

Let’s hope you don’t get sidetracked with your early-morning tea ritual. You make such a fuss about it.

What’s going to happen to me?

I’m lifted. A door slams. The sound of passing cars. Then. Tilted. My stomach churns. A few minutes later, I’m put down. The hatch slides open. A shake—and I tumble out, landing hard under the glaring sun. I hit the ground running, paws slipping between stones. It’s a gravel driveway. A steep wall of red brick rises above me like a tower.

Your footsteps fade. Conscience clear, you leave me behind.

I don’t look back. Not yet.

Instinct kicks in. The morning hums with energy and scent. My eyes adjust. A shaft of sunlight warms my back despite the cold. Ah. My nose twitches, whiskers flaring. The smell of yeast and warm flour drifts through the air. It’s a gathering smell—the kind that pulls the early risers together before they even know they’re awake.

Of course. It’s the back of the bakery. Where they park the cars. Beyond it, there’s a field.

I turn. There’s your house. Across the road.

Ticker-ticker, I dart into a clump of weeds, tail flicking. I dive for cover before anyone spots me. Hunger gnaws, but before I sprint for the bakery, I glance back at your window.

Key turned. You think the problem’s solved.

It doesn’t occur to you — you’re a pawn in a much older game.

Last night, just before the box snapped shut, I finished chewing the kettle wire. Gnawed it at just the right spot, exposing the copper like a raw, black vein.

Soon you’ll pad around in those sloppy slippers, reaching for your first brew. Nice. Hot. Strong. You’ll pull the kettle towards you.

And then—

Flash!

You should know by now. Two can play that game.

You weren’t the only one setting traps. The smartest hunter in the house just got free.

And you? You’re about to get zapped.

Poor old Mr. Nibbles, turning in his cage. I almost feel sorry for him.