Mini Mouse's Hope
By Summer Bacon
Mini Mouse’s mother was really beginning to annoy me. When I first saw her I had to laugh. She waddled out of the pantry, plump with babies (one of which, I assume, was probably Mini Mouse). She moved so slowly I could have crushed her underfoot—and almost did crush her when I did the, “Eek! It’s a MOUSE!” dance across my kitchen floor. When I saw how very vulnerable and confused she was, I called my children in and asked them to help her find her way back into the wall. They gently scooted her across the floor with a broom until she found the hole next to the oven, and squeezed her plump little body inside.
My kindness in not putting her out in the cold did not pay off. In fact, she rewarded me with night after night of an incessant munching sound that clearly came from my pantry. I have a two bedroom apartment, and my kids have separate bedrooms, which leaves me with the living room as my sleeping quarters. This area is in direct earshot of the kitchen...and munching meeses.
I hit the wall with my fist, turned lights on, and tried to catch the hungry little critter in action. I talked to Dr. Peebles and my guides, and asked them to relay a message to the mouse: “Leave my house, or die.” Enough was enough. The next step was going to be the exterminator. After all, “those mice can carry diseases,” my mind was telling me. But, my heart argued, “Do you know how they kill the mice? They feed them poison that makes them so dehydrated that they leave your house to look for water...and then they die anyway.” This pregnant mousie’s destiny was in my hands. I decided to pray. I just couldn’t kill anything, and I couldn’t justify killing anything indirectly by paying a third party (a mousie hitman) to do the job.
Pray and pray I did. Night after sleepless munching night—several cleanings of the pantry later—a hundred dollars or more of dry goods tossed into the garbage. I was getting very grumpy about the whole thing...very victimized. That stupid mouse wasn’t going to give up easily, and I was beginning to feel less and less compassionate. The pantry, even after I cleaned and sanitized it, had a musky mouse odor to it. I complained to my mother.
“Cayenne pepper,” my mother said in her earthy practicality, “They hate cayenne pepper. Sprinkle some around.” One $4 jar of cayenne pepper later, and I finally experienced a night of silence. Then there came the incessant scraping away at the wall as the little mousie tried to munch herself a new pathway to my pantry. “A Pestacator,” my dad said in his technological practicality, “They hate the ultrasound vibration. I’ll give you one to try.” One Pestacator later, and I finally experienced several nights of sleep.
There was one last step: one last thorough cleaning and sanitizing of the pantry was in order. As my children and I moved boxes and bags, finding every last mouse dropping, I reached to a higher shelf that I had recently ignored. A box of cereal was conspicuously out of place. I moved the box, and found a sight that was truly touching and amazing.
The box of Clusters cereal had been nibbled at in vain. Tiny teeth could not penetrate the thick cardboard. Shreds of cardboard littered the area behind the box. Teeny droppings, and the bittiest dried up puddles of urine were everywhere. Some of the cardboard shreds had been piled lightly, used as bedding for the tiny figure, not even half an inch in length from head to tail, that rested in peace at the center. An itty bitty mouse—Mini Mouse—lay dead, exhausted from her efforts to stay alive. But, that was not the amazing sight.
“Look at this, Mom,” my daughter Emily said softly. From the pile, Emily plucked a yellow Valentine candy heart. We examined it, and the edges had been lightly nibbled all the way around. At the center of the heart, written in pink bold letters was the word “HOPE.”
Mini Mouse and the yellow Valentine candy heart were buried by my children in the backyard (where Jones the hamster, and Risko the gerbil, plus a few goldfish, were also at rest). HOPE was buried with this resourceful, gentle, hungry little being.
Rest in peace, Mini Mouse, and thank your ever-loving little heart for teaching me and my children to never give up HOPE, even in the hardest times.
Mini Mouse’s mother was really beginning to annoy me. When I first saw her I had to laugh. She waddled out of the pantry, plump with babies (one of which, I assume, was probably Mini Mouse). She moved so slowly I could have crushed her underfoot—and almost did crush her when I did the, “Eek! It’s a MOUSE!” dance across my kitchen floor. When I saw how very vulnerable and confused she was, I called my children in and asked them to help her find her way back into the wall. They gently scooted her across the floor with a broom until she found the hole next to the oven, and squeezed her plump little body inside.
My kindness in not putting her out in the cold did not pay off. In fact, she rewarded me with night after night of an incessant munching sound that clearly came from my pantry. I have a two bedroom apartment, and my kids have separate bedrooms, which leaves me with the living room as my sleeping quarters. This area is in direct earshot of the kitchen...and munching meeses.
I hit the wall with my fist, turned lights on, and tried to catch the hungry little critter in action. I talked to Dr. Peebles and my guides, and asked them to relay a message to the mouse: “Leave my house, or die.” Enough was enough. The next step was going to be the exterminator. After all, “those mice can carry diseases,” my mind was telling me. But, my heart argued, “Do you know how they kill the mice? They feed them poison that makes them so dehydrated that they leave your house to look for water...and then they die anyway.” This pregnant mousie’s destiny was in my hands. I decided to pray. I just couldn’t kill anything, and I couldn’t justify killing anything indirectly by paying a third party (a mousie hitman) to do the job.
Pray and pray I did. Night after sleepless munching night—several cleanings of the pantry later—a hundred dollars or more of dry goods tossed into the garbage. I was getting very grumpy about the whole thing...very victimized. That stupid mouse wasn’t going to give up easily, and I was beginning to feel less and less compassionate. The pantry, even after I cleaned and sanitized it, had a musky mouse odor to it. I complained to my mother.
“Cayenne pepper,” my mother said in her earthy practicality, “They hate cayenne pepper. Sprinkle some around.” One $4 jar of cayenne pepper later, and I finally experienced a night of silence. Then there came the incessant scraping away at the wall as the little mousie tried to munch herself a new pathway to my pantry. “A Pestacator,” my dad said in his technological practicality, “They hate the ultrasound vibration. I’ll give you one to try.” One Pestacator later, and I finally experienced several nights of sleep.
There was one last step: one last thorough cleaning and sanitizing of the pantry was in order. As my children and I moved boxes and bags, finding every last mouse dropping, I reached to a higher shelf that I had recently ignored. A box of cereal was conspicuously out of place. I moved the box, and found a sight that was truly touching and amazing.
The box of Clusters cereal had been nibbled at in vain. Tiny teeth could not penetrate the thick cardboard. Shreds of cardboard littered the area behind the box. Teeny droppings, and the bittiest dried up puddles of urine were everywhere. Some of the cardboard shreds had been piled lightly, used as bedding for the tiny figure, not even half an inch in length from head to tail, that rested in peace at the center. An itty bitty mouse—Mini Mouse—lay dead, exhausted from her efforts to stay alive. But, that was not the amazing sight.
“Look at this, Mom,” my daughter Emily said softly. From the pile, Emily plucked a yellow Valentine candy heart. We examined it, and the edges had been lightly nibbled all the way around. At the center of the heart, written in pink bold letters was the word “HOPE.”
Mini Mouse and the yellow Valentine candy heart were buried by my children in the backyard (where Jones the hamster, and Risko the gerbil, plus a few goldfish, were also at rest). HOPE was buried with this resourceful, gentle, hungry little being.
Rest in peace, Mini Mouse, and thank your ever-loving little heart for teaching me and my children to never give up HOPE, even in the hardest times.