THE MOUSE THAT DIDN'T STIR

Do you know the Christmas Classic, "Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse?” Of course, you do. Everyone does. It’s part of the holiday tradition. It has been told and retold time and again.

But you don’t know the whole story. There’s another part that wasn’t mentioned in the original. It’s about why the mouse didn’t stir, and I can tell it because I am that mouse.

So what, you say? Who cares? you say. Well, I do. And I want to clear everything up. It wasn't my fault entirely. You might say I was a victim of chance—or that I was doing what all mice do when they have an empty stomach, and don't have the willpower to stop.

My name is Miranda, and it all started when I was searching for food, which, around here, is a difficult task at best.

Now, let me tell you, this house is a fortress. Not a single crumb is left unattended. Cupboard doors shut tighter than a miser’s purse, and anything edible is locked away in metal tins that might as well be bank vaults.

If it weren't cold enough outside to freeze my whiskers stiff, I would have found another place to live long ago.

After exhausting every one of my tried‑and‑true sources of nourishment only to find the well has dried up, I resigned myself to a hungry Christmas. Depressed and starving, I longed for my cozy nest, but the path to my home led me straight through the kitchen.

That cursed kitchen had been the first stop on my failed hunting expedition. How I managed to overlook such a glorious stash of forgotten grub is beyond me. But once I spotted it, well…I went a little crazy.

There it sat on a side table: a partially eaten Christmas gift, abandoned—Granny Mitchell’s famous fruitcake. Humans may argue endlessly about this holiday delicacy, but Granny Mitchell’s version is in a league of its own. She makes the most delicious Fruit Cake ever. Some say the secret to her cakes lies in the fact that they are so impossibly moist, and they’re absolutely right.

To accomplish that, she pours Apricot Brandy over the finished cake, and soaks them, not once, not twice, but consistently until it practically hums with the holiday spirit. When those cakes leave Granny Mitchell's kitchen, the aroma alone could make a teetotaler woozy.

So there I was, before all the commotion with the little fat man and his reindeer, staring at what was left of Granny’s masterpiece. There wasn't much, I must say, but for me it was a feast to dream about.

I WAS KNOCKED OVER when I first bit into it. Literally, I found myself flat on my back staring at the ceiling. But did that stop me? Absolutely not. I scrambled back up, shook the sugar crumbs from my fur, and dove in again. The second nibble didn't hit quite as hard, and by the third tidbit, I was warm, wobbly, and thoroughly enchanted.

My head began to feel as if it were a hot air balloon, swelling and lifting, trying to float high into the air like a festive parade float. The room tilted pleasantly, then unpleasantly; it began to spin, and suddenly I wasn’t entirely sure which way was up.

My legs—usually swift and sure, carrying me across the floor like a whisper of wind—decided they were done for the night. They folded beneath me, no longer holding me up.

So I simply lay there, nose buried in that glorious treasure, and kept eating.

Each bite was a warm, boozy hug. Each crumb tasted like holiday cheer distilled and baked into pure bliss.

I intended to consume every morsel—truly, I did. I approached that feast with the solemn devotion of a pilgrim at a holy site. But somewhere between the third crumb and the fourth, a velvety darkness wrapped itself around me like a winter blanket, warm and irresistible. My eyelids drooped. My whiskers twitched once, twice—and then I drifted off right there in the middle of my banquet, curled amid the spoils like a dragon atop its hoard.

I have no idea how long I slept in that glorious sprawl. Time felt soft around the edges, as if the world had padded its footsteps so as not to disturb me.

When I finally woke, my first thought was that I had died and gone to mice heaven. The house was quiet again. The throwing open of shutters, the clatter of hooves on the roof, the jingling bells—everything had already come and gone. I’d missed the whole spectacle. My head throbbed like a drum in a marching band, and my stomach was doing things it had never done before. Despite the pain circulating through my entire body, surrounded by the remnants of my feast, I had no regrets, not a single nibble.

That fruitcake was worth every dizzy moment, and I will never forget my best Christmas ever.

That, dear listener, is how I became known far and wide as the mouse that wasn’t stirring. As you can plainly see, it wasn’t my fault. I was simply doing what any respectable mouse would do when faced with an irresistible feast and a cozy patch of quiet.

Still, my reputation didn’t end there. I did redeem myself later, of course—spectacularly so—on the night my friend Mortimer and I soared through the sky with Santa himself. We were there—Santa, the reindeer, the sleigh. We were right in the middle of it, whiskers freezing in the wind, as I hid behind one of Mortimer’s big floppy ears. But that adventure…well, a tale with its own twists, turns, and questionable decisions. It deserves its own night, its own firelight, its own patient audience. and it will have to wait for another night.

For now, let this be enough: I may have slept through one Christmas miracle, but I more than made up for it on the next.

THE END