Mice

When I was in grade school, I raised mice. We kept them on the back lanai in 10-gallon aquariums that my father expertly fitted with chicken wire lids. I tried valiantly to keep up with their rampant reproduction, but it was hopeless. No matter how many trips I made to the pet store with my latest batch of babies, it seemed as though by the time I had returned, I needed to add another aquarium to my rapidly expanding mouse city.
My favorite mouse was Blackie Gumbo. He was black, beautiful, and velvet smooth. Blackie Gumbo NEVER made the trip to the pet store. I suspect that perhaps he is one of the reasons I kept on having to add aquariums.

Now, almost forty years later and thousands of miles away, I am in the mouse business again.
This time, it is not voluntary.
This time, I have no aquariums and I definitely have no lovely chicken wire lids. These mice are of the wild variety, and they moved in without asking.
I have mixed emotions about these mice.

They took up residence in my attic and, and, while I must admit that they are the most adorable, soft little brown field mice that it has ever been my pleasure to meet, I rather resent their assumption that I would be okay with this arrangement.

The Emily Post in me simply cannot endure the fact that these mice display an appalling lack of manners. My children thoughtfully leave their lunch bags on their bedroom floors, giving our mice a lovely smorgasbord of leftovers from which to feast. And the piles of clothes that artfully decorate my children’s rooms provide an endless supply of easy to reach nesting materials for our mice. Yet my children have never received so much as a “thank you” for their efforts.
The sleep-deprived, over-stressed single mother in me wants to scream. It is patently obvious that our mice have never heard the phrase “quiet as a mouse”! They delight in running around in the middle of the night, waking up those of us who have finally managed to fall asleep! Their favorite game is tag. They play with our cat. Usually in my bedroom. The cat is always “it”. Our more out of shape mice prefer playing hide-and-seek, but again, the cat is still “it”. Occasionally, they will host a dance party in the attic. They do some sort of wild and crazy River Dance/haka/Stomp!/do-si-do combo that echoes in our bedrooms below keeping us awake until the wee hours of the morning.
The Buddhist in me is more compassionate. The Buddhist in me knows that every being has been my mother. The Buddhist in me says that I have created artificial boundaries and that these mice are sentient beings who have a right to live wherever they choose as long as they are not hurting anyone.

So with my best Buddhist intentions, I set out to convince our mice that they would be much happier living elsewhere. I joined the game of tag. I replaced the cat as “it” and chased one silly mouse at a time through my bedroom, down the hall, into the children’s bathroom, back out into the hall, down the stairs, through the living room, finally tagging them, one by one, under the couch. Gently, I would scoop up the mouse and carry it tenderly out of the house and down the street before releasing it in a cozy bush three blocks away.

My early years as a mouse breeder should have taught me that this would not be a very effective way to rid my house of mice. Clearly there is at least one Blackie Gumbo type mouse still living in, and repopulating, my house.

Plan B involved an ionizer. Rumor has it that rodents cannot stand the sound that is emitted by ionizers. Apparently, our mice missed that memo.

Then one day, while driving my youngest son to guitar lessons, I saw a van advertising Green Pest Eradication. Ignoring the fact that I was driving 60 miles an hour down the freeway I grabbed my cell phone and dialed. I rationalized my rash behavior by telling myself that dialing only took one hand while writing the number down would take two.
Three rings later, I was talking to a very pleasant man with a radio announcer voice. His name was Mike.
“I have mice,” I blurted into the phone.
“We can help,” Mike answered.
“Do you kill them?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Oh,” I paused. Somehow I had convinced myself that “green pest eradication” would not involve the death of our mice. I didn’t want our mice dead. I just wanted them to find a home of their own. I explained all of this to Mike. He laughed at my joke. When I didn’t laugh back, he swallowed his chuckle and explained that “green” referred to the fact that no harm would be done to the environment as a result of their pest eradication. The bait traps would be completely environmentally friendly and totally safe to humans and other animals.
I edged around the Buddhist in me. “It won’t hurt the mice, will it?” I pleaded.
“Oh no,” Mike assured me. “They eat the bait and get really thirsty so they go outside to find some water and then they’re gone.”
I wavered.
Mike explained that mice carry disease and they can wreak havoc in the structure of one’s home.
The Emily Post, sleep-deprived, over-stressed single mother in me trumped the Buddhist in me. I have four children that need, expect and have a right to, a safe, clean, quiet home. They are my first priority. Besides, according to Mike, our mice are causing harm.
I signed up for green pest eradacation.
Technically, I suppose I am causing the death of our mice. But, I’m choosing to look at it as speeding fellow sentient beings along the path to enlightenment. I mean, it’s hard to reach enlightenment as a mouse, and at least by helping them to leave their little mouse bodies I am giving them a fighting chance. Right?!