By Meghan Fitzgerald-Black
Come on over and pull up a chair. Have I got a tale for you!
First, let me preface the story with this: we all have a gift of some sort. Maybe you are the one guy on the boat who always manages to catch a fish, even when everyone else goes home empty handed. Or maybe you are the woman who can look at a pile of ugly cloth and turn it into an heirloom quilt. My talent has always involved wild animals. It’s nothing so wonderful as luring them out of the woods with a sweet song sung in a high soprano. No- my experiences tend to put me in odd situations with fairly common wild life. What I’m about to tell you is completely true. I have witnesses.
As any cat owner can attest, cats love to bring their kills into the warm house. If we are lucky, we catch them in the act, and can remove both killer and killee to a place more suitable for that sort of thing: outside. If we aren’t, we find the ‘gift’ after the fact, minus its head and in a gory puddle. Ah, cats.
So on the particular night when our adventure begins, one of the cats brought in her prize, except there was nothing killed about it. This has happened often enough that I have a policy: dead mice and cat go outside. Live mice get put in a box overnight for release, and kitty gets cuddles and a treat. The cat is somewhat happy with her praise, but quite annoyed at losing her snack. With luck, she learns to finish them off before um, sharing. It all works to prevent the sort of situation from a few years ago when a mouse named ‘Fred’ kept me company all winter by chewing in the wall late at night. The cat had brought him in and he escaped. I grew to like Fred, but that didn’t stop visions of electrical fires from dancing around as I listened to him gnawing away.
On this night, the live mouse was taken and put in a plastic ice cream container with holes poked in the lid (finally a use for those silly buckets!) and a soft piece of red material for a nest. Kitty was praised and gave me the usual dirty look. In the morning the kids were apprised of the situation. They were thrilled, and of course wanted to immediately see the mouse. I cautioned them strongly about bites and disease, and they peered in at her with hands firmly behind their backs, ahhing and oohing. She calmly accepted the adoration, and it was easy to see what they loved about her: she was a pretty chocolate brown on top, creamy white underneath, with tiny paws, huge black liquid eyes, and shell ears. I promised to hold off letting her go until they returned home.
They got off the bus and countdown to release began. The kids picked a perfectly respectable spot at the edge of our property- with lots of bushes for shelter and nibbling, and lots of dead leaves for hiding and tunneling under. Despite the lateness of the season, green shoots could still be found. It was a mouse paradise.
Of course, the mouse must be named. She was saddled with the somewhat dubious Mousey Whiskers, and her temporary home was brought outside. She was enthusiastically freed. Except for the intense reluctance on the part of the mouse, it was a picture perfect moment. If it had been a wild life movie, this is the point where we all would have needed a hanky. The problem here is the mouse had no intentions of going back to the wild. She hopped onto a bent twig and watched us over her shoulder with her little marble eyes, twig quivering slightly under her weight. Just sitting there, watching us. A pet mouse would have had more reaction.
We talked in hushed voices. Maybe Mousey Whiskers was confused! I took a half-step forward and said something encouraging like, “Get, you!”
Mousey Whiskers came to a sudden decision. She hopped off the twig and made a bee-line… for my shoe. There she paused, apparently thinking up her next strategic move. The kids and I laughed hysterically. What a weird mouse she was!
Mousey took a few more steps, off my shoe, and right up the back of my jeans, up my sweater, and paused for a break just inside my hair. The kids squealed with delight. I cautioned them to whisper, fearing Mousey would decide I deserved a nice set of teeth marks in my neck. I reached my hands toward my shoulder, but didn’t dare grab her. Moments passed as I considered options, rodent snuggled at my nape and me trying not to scream and run. I like mice but this was all getting a little too intimate for me. At a loss, I leaned forward and she took the hint, launching herself onto the ground. There she sat.
By now I realized release into her natural habitat was not high on Mousey’s list of Top Ten Things to Do Before She Died. I grabbed the container, and headed toward her. A few more cat free days were in order.
Having failed to discuss the plan with Mousey, she was apparently unclear about my intentions. There was a repeat of the previous clothes-shimmying experience, but this time she used my hair as climbing ropes and came to a stop on the top of my head. My son, bless his heart, reached his hands to get her, but didn’t come any closer. Disease and Biting were etched on his brain. He looked very apologetic as he watched me, helplessly. My daughter excitedly talked about how sweet Mousey was. Adding, “Mama, I bet she is pooping in your hair!” Ah, five year olds.
I put the round ice cream container over the top of my head like a hat, then leaned forward. Mousey contentedly fell into it, quite calm and pleased to be back in her home. We brought her inside. My children were very excited that the mouse would be having an extended visit. I cautioned, “It’s just for some rest.” They nodded sagely and told me I’d better go shower.
Sadly Mousey Whisker’s rerelease date was not to be. She died two days later. Apparently she had just wanted a little central heating, safety, and some room service during her last few days. And isn’t that what we’d all like at the very end?
In another article I’ll tell you about the Turtle That Bit My Belly Button, and the Wild Turkey That Nearly Attacked Me. But I think I’ve stretched my own credibility enough for one day.
