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Mouse Play

By: Angela Gillaspie Copyright © April 2000

Recently, I had an experience with a mouse in my home. It was nothing really -- just the same old story of your typical hysterical mom confronted with a mouse stuck in a glue trap. My husband rushed in and saved the day by ridding the house of the mouse and helping me extract my fingernails from the kitchen ceiling. What really struck me about the whole experience was my reaction of revulsion and horror.

I was totally grossed out and wondered aloud many times how we could have a mouse. Most of the food on my floors is clean food and it has only been there for just a day or two, I'm sure. The cheese hadn't hardened yet and most of the Cheerios and Froot Loops I find are still moist from the milk in the morning's cereal.

Could I have mice because I live in the "country"? No. I live in the middle of a suburb with my designated four trees, fenced yard, and neighbors who mow their four-by-four lawns every Saturday morning and stare and shake their collective heads when I scream at my son to stop putting worms in his little brother's ear.

Cleanliness and country don't have anything to do with having mice. Where there's a small entrance, there will probably be mice. It still didn't help me feel better ... all I could think of were huge rats slithering around, touching my stuff, contaminating my children's food, carrying off my babies, and ... well, you get the idea.

But there were no rats. As far as we can tell, this solitary mouse was residing next to my computer and under the sink. If you ask me, there was a whole lot of poop around for one little brown field mouse. Given that I have three kids under eight-years-old, there is quite a bit of crumbs, apple cores, and half-eaten sandwiches lying around to give the mouse bunches to eat, which in turn would increase his poop volume. The poop is disgusting, but what amazed me was how I freaked out over a little two-ounce animal. I wasn't this way in my youth.

Growing up, I was a wild country girl, through and through. We always had mice (and lizards, and squirrels, and bats, etc.) in our home, but it was no big deal. I even remember finding a bunch of newborn mice underneath our house and petting them.

"Aw, how cute!" I'd purr, while Momma shrieked, "Oh, no - get 'em outta here NOW!"

My Daddy raised chinchillas for a while to sell to furriers, but soon started losing money on the venture. This resulted in him selling all of the animals. So the small cinder block building that once held the chinchillas became a storage place where I would play for countless hours. When you don't have anyone to your own age to play with, you become quite adept at other abilities. Me? I was akin to Dr. Doolittle; I liked to talk to the animals.

Of course, I had to catch them first.

The Chinchilla house had many great nooks and old chicken wire cages where I could catch mice. Sure, I used my bare hands! What else would I use? One problem I encountered were mice teeth -- I would hold the mouse by the body and the little booger would bite me! The bigger problem was Momma's mortification.

I'd run wailing to Momma and tell her how I could talk to the animals, but the mean old mouse wouldn't listen to me and would bite me. Momma's face would draw into a pinched-up wad and she'd say, "You got bit by a RAT?"

"It was furry, (sniff), and cute, (sniff), and it was my friend, (sniff), and IT BIT ME!" I snubbed.

She'd tenderly dry my tears and boil my wound out with peroxide. Soon we'd be in the car for the forty-five minute drive to the doctor's office. All the way there, she would shake her head and mutter, "How am I going to tell Dr. Mahan that we don't live in a garbage dump?" Her sarcasm was totally lost on me.

After two more bites and the resulting trips to Dr. Mahan's office, I learned how to correctly hold a mouse -- which is by the tail. Momma wasn't at all impressed by my new mouse-handling abilities.

I always thought that I would grow up to be a mom that didn't overreact about bugs, snakes, and especially mice.

Wrong.

As one matures, one becomes wiser; in history class I learned that fleas from rodents caused the Bubonic Plague. I also learned that mouse droppings are more than mere furniture accessories -- they are actually fecal matter! Mice eat garbage and quite possibly associate with other mice, and if they're from the bad side of town they could even have rabies! I wonder if there are crack-addict mice that will chase you down and puncture your legs with their evil little sharp teeth?

There are probably mice that chew tobacco and pry off the rusted top and drink that Mad Dog 20-20 that I've been hiding under my sink since 1986. Gross! Staggering, putrid, amorous mice looking to make babies with giant sewer rats that just happen to scuttle by on their way to herd some turds in their favorite drain pipe. And I know that these vile creatures will birth these babies in my sugar bowl.

Horrors!

Oh, I digress. When you become a mother, a funny thing happens: you have this little helpless child to protect and your fierce 'Mama Bear' instincts take over. A mouse is no longer cute and soft - it is a gruesome invader in your home that could carry off your children. You view this intruder with contempt: you know it gnawed a hole in the Froot Loops box and then took a dump before leaving. If you look close enough and you can almost see the green, yellow, and red crumbs in the corners of its mouth.

As you look for something to get rid of the mouse with, one of your own Dr. Doolittle wannabes will inevitably reach down to caress and talk to the animal. "You reap what you sow," you think, as you tenderly dry the tears and boil the wound out with peroxide. All the while wondering how you are going to convince your pediatrician that you don't live in a dumpster.

© Angela Gillaspie 2000


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Revised: 04/09/00 - 10/28/06
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