This bright sunny morning, a straw mouse with a cherry pink head and ears the size of a hare’s stood on its hind legs and looked up with its beady eyes, while three smaller furry mice (one far too realistic in my peripheral vision) appeared to scurry around. A bowl emptied of food awaited alongside another full of water and a litter-tray filled only the day before gleamed white. But there was no movement from behind the window (or latterly the garden-door) curtain. No soft fur brushed against my leg. No pleading eyes or squeaky voice demanded breakfast, before I made my cup of tea.