Consider the lilies of the field domestic cat. It toils not, neither does it spin.
We are in the middle of a mouse infestation in our house. A few months ago, we heard scratching in the kitchen walls, and as winter continued the scratching moved upwards towards the attic. Recently it's become more than just scratching; in the past 24 hours, I've had to wield the executioner's 2x4 on three cute little field mice after watching our two new cats attempt to catch and eat the little things. As savage domestic predators, they're, um, not very efficient. There's not very many places a tiny little mouse can go in our bedroom (particularly after I removed the attractive laundry pile, which turned out to contain a mouse that, yes, the cats managed to completely avoid capturing until I took pity on the poor damned thing and squashed it flat) but the cats, who are very efficient and hunting down and killing lego blocks and cat toys, managed to keep missing the tiny scampering thing.
Our old cat Suzzy, before she caught terminal cancer, was a much more efficient mouser; the only times we spotted her with mice she was sitting there either batting at or looking at their small crumpled furry forms. The new cats, um, they're not quite so good. But perhaps they'll learn before the current mouse infestation goes away, because I'm getting really sick of killing mice before breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and I'd much pass the job off to a creature that would consider a dead mouse as part of a balanced diet.