Our house has a new, beclawed occupant. Its reign of fluffy terror would be hell were it not so Instagrammable
My wife and I are watching TV, but there is a loud and persistent scrabbling sound coming from under the sofa, travelling from one end to the other and back.
“Can you turn it up?” I say. My wife points the remote at the screen. Something small and grey with a long tail shoots out from beneath the sofa and streaks across the room, pausing briefly to gnaw at the corner of the rug before disappearing under a desk.
