Room with a view
In search of middle-class respectability for our new pet mouse
By Joanna Dehn Beresford 03/04/2010
“The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.”
— Robert Burns
Actually, it’s “gang aft agley.” That means “often go awry” in Scots, and that’s how the man the Scots call Bobbie originally wrote the poem, generally referred to as, “To a Mouse.” As I mentioned in an earlier column, I’m a horrible planner, so I usually pay little heed to the aphorism. But the mouse part comes to mind because my own personal mouse business took a dire turn for the worst this week.
Here’s how the story starts: My mother was dying, practically dead actually (well, not really, but she’d be better off dead, judging from her present condition, after decades of Alzheimer’s blitzkrieg has battered her into a raveled string-looking ruin of a creature, hardly conscious in bed). Anyway, I flew back east to visit her recently after some fresh scares about her health.
And guess what? She was “fine,” because somewhere inside her there’s still an unwavering will, or tenacity, or whatever. But, upon returning to California, I discovered that I was, once again, a new mother myself.
“I’d like you to meet Ash,” said my son, somehow appearing guilelessly wide-eyed and sly as a snake at the same time. He extended his gently cupped hands, inside of which lay a tiny ball of fur, curled up and sniffling: a baby mouse. How Ash arrived in our home is a Byzantine tail — I mean tale — of its own. He’s here because I can hardly ever say no to a new pet. Those bratty children of mine know me too well.
So, my point is, for the purposes of this column: How do you make a home within a home for a mouse? A mouse house, so to speak.
I was busy, broke and distracted after my East Coast venture, too much so to make the Pet Smart pilgrimage immediately, so Ash lived in a Tupperware box for awhile. It got very stinky and it was too small for him, so we moved him up to a bright orange bowl with books stacked on top. Like tenement housing, sort of, with an upgrade.
Then Austin, my son’s friend, came over. Austin bears scars all over his body. He was in a terrible car accident two years ago that left him in a coma for months. He woke with amnesia and had to relearn everything. He has a little trouble in school, but he’s great on a skateboard and, as it turns out, he can build a killer mouse house. He made it out of boxes, books, twigs and tape. I called it Shantytown, and it worked for about a day, but then Ash started to escape.
And did I mention we have a cat? And that my son’s room looks like a garbage dump? Perfect place for a mouse to hide. We lost him about five times and spent hours looking for him (I even resorted to calling him: “Ash? Ash, where are you?”) Johnee, my son, would run his hands along Cleo the cat’s underbelly, feeling for a familiar mouse-like shape.
“Go check the litter box,” he told me.
We found him each time, and we finally schlepped over to the pet store and bought Ash a proper home: a cage. It’s white and green, two-tiered, with a tube and an exercise wheel. Here’s what he likes to do in it: climb all over the wire walls and ceiling; slide down the tube; nibble on nuggets from his bowl; sleep in a corner; and poke his pink nose through the openings.
“He’s got a nicer house than we do!” exclaimed my daughter.
Perhaps. It’s safe, fun, cozy, comfortable, practical and interesting to him. And the surprising thing is that I respect him more now that he has a decent home. He was sort of a poor, misfortunate vagabond before; I felt sorry for him, but I didn’t respect him. Now he seems more dignified, sort of a proper middle-class mouse. Sometimes I almost envy his cage, his active life, his triumph over the hungry cat that still slinks around the house hoping to pounce on that morsel of mouse flesh.
But isn’t it funny how we feel about mice and people and the way that they live, and how pretty much every one of us has a place? My mother in her bed, with bars and bare walls. My kids and me in our ever-evolving, often untidy, sometimes downright disastrous home. And Ash in his cage. Mostly, we all just want a place where we can eat, play, sleep safely, and maybe if we’re lucky, have a pretty nice view of the world.
Contact Joanna Dehn Beresford at truewrite@yahoo.com.
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