Mortimer and Peebs: A Tail of Tiny Tiffs
A whisker-twitching chronicle of petty grievances and improbable adventures.
Mortimer was a mouse of refined taste.
He polished his whiskers daily, kept his tail immaculately curled, and considered himself the foremost authority on seed arrangement in the village granary.
Peebs… was not.
Peebs was chaos wrapped in fur.
His tail was always bent at a strange angle from “that one time with the cheese wheel,” and he spoke in a rapid-fire squeak like he was trying to set a new record for breathless insults.
---
Their current feud?
A button.
A single, shiny brass button they’d both spotted at the same time in the attic of Old Lady Whitterby’s cottage.
Mortimer claimed it was the perfect centrepiece for his “Autumn Acorn Aesthetic” display.
Peebs claimed it was destined to be the steering wheel of his homemade walnut-boat.
They had been arguing for three days.
---
The attic’s dust motes swirled around them as they glared.
Mortimer: “You wouldn’t know decorative balance if it fell on your tail.”
Peebs: “You wouldn’t know adventure if it ran up your trousers and bit you.”
Mortimer: “My trousers are bespoke.”
Peebs: “Your trousers are stitched from an old oven mitt.”
Before Mortimer could deliver his devastating comeback, the floorboards under the button creaked… and the button rolled away.
Both mice stared.
Peebs blinked.
Mortimer sniffed.
“Truce until retrieval?”
“Truce until retrieval.”
They bolted after it — down the attic stairs, across the parlour, and straight into the waiting paws of Percival the Cat, who had been watching with the patience of a bored deity.
A long pause.
“You talk to him,” Peebs whispered.
“You’re the one who once gave him your tail hair to knit with.”
“It was a peace offering!”
“It was weird.”
Percival’s eyes narrowed.
His paw batted the button lazily… sending it rolling right back to the attic.
The chase began again.
He polished his whiskers daily, kept his tail immaculately curled, and considered himself the foremost authority on seed arrangement in the village granary.
Peebs… was not.
Peebs was chaos wrapped in fur.
His tail was always bent at a strange angle from “that one time with the cheese wheel,” and he spoke in a rapid-fire squeak like he was trying to set a new record for breathless insults.
---
Their current feud?
A button.
A single, shiny brass button they’d both spotted at the same time in the attic of Old Lady Whitterby’s cottage.
Mortimer claimed it was the perfect centrepiece for his “Autumn Acorn Aesthetic” display.
Peebs claimed it was destined to be the steering wheel of his homemade walnut-boat.
They had been arguing for three days.
---
The attic’s dust motes swirled around them as they glared.
Mortimer: “You wouldn’t know decorative balance if it fell on your tail.”
Peebs: “You wouldn’t know adventure if it ran up your trousers and bit you.”
Mortimer: “My trousers are bespoke.”
Peebs: “Your trousers are stitched from an old oven mitt.”
Before Mortimer could deliver his devastating comeback, the floorboards under the button creaked… and the button rolled away.
Both mice stared.
Peebs blinked.
Mortimer sniffed.
“Truce until retrieval?”
“Truce until retrieval.”
They bolted after it — down the attic stairs, across the parlour, and straight into the waiting paws of Percival the Cat, who had been watching with the patience of a bored deity.
A long pause.
“You talk to him,” Peebs whispered.
“You’re the one who once gave him your tail hair to knit with.”
“It was a peace offering!”
“It was weird.”
Percival’s eyes narrowed.
His paw batted the button lazily… sending it rolling right back to the attic.
The chase began again.
