It's raining on my mouse.
I still regret setting it free in the wild garden across the street. My husband tolerates me when I go over there, scratching around in the weeds and calling, "Mouse! Oh, Mousie!"
The mouse hasn't forgiven me. The mouse is probably enjoying my suffering.
Clearly, I'm in sad shape, mentally unbalanced. That is, more than usual... I suppose that pining for the mouse is easier than pining for Bertie, because the mouse is probably very much alive. So I have a chance in million of getting him back, which is more than can be said for our cat. Bertie is irreplaceable. I even miss his horrible old-man cat breath, which made me feel queasy and faint as he'd sit by my desk, complaining at me about this and that. It's dull without him.
I've heard that, where there's one mouse, there are usually more. I'm waiting....