Mouse Encounters - A Story in Three Parts

I’ve always hated mice.  The real ones, of course.  The cartoon ones, stuffed toy ones, ceramic ones, … any inanimate ones, basically, are ok in my book and I can find them completely adorable.  But my hatred of real ones is deep in my core and, as anyone that really knows me can attest, they trigger a mix of anger, fear and disgust in me. That in turn releases a primal “aaaaccckkk!”, an automatic recoil, which many would consider a bit extreme and then my brain trying to work it’s way around how to get rid of the nasty little bugger.  

“THEY” say that everything has a purpose in this world, all creatures great and small, blah blah blah.  I’m supposing the main purpose of mice, aside from being a food source for birds of prey, a spry plaything for cats and a muse for artists is to just Freak Me Out!  I kid you not, dear friends, and I have the proof….

One

My earliest encounter with mice that I can recall was when I was very young.. perhaps five or six years old.  My parents always rented houses back then.  Being fairly young themselves, buying wasn’t an option. I do recall one particular house being very large, old, brown shake siding with a front porch that had glass windows and a door with square window panes.  There was a dirt circular driveway and in the center of that stood another building that was bigger than a typical shed, but not big enough to be a house.  It could possibly be a farmstand, a greenhouse or just a large square gazebo of sorts. It had the same brown shakes and glass window panes to match the big house. I would never know what it’s original purpose was, but there it was.  As kids, my sister and I would run around the yard and driveway in our fringed cowboy jackets (no political correctness back then to be cow-persons or keepers of cows), cowboy boots and holsters with cap guns.  There were times friends would be over and a typical game initiated by my older sister was “RUN! Get on the porch and lock the door so Cheryl can’t get in and starts crying as we look and laugh at her through the glass windows!”  As an an adult,  I once told my sister she had been a “mean girl” to me and she almost gasped outloud as she defiantly said “I was NOT!”.  She was.  There were, however, times when there was no one else to play with and she was forced to deal with me and being a four year age difference this must have been SO difficult for her.  I remember one rainy day we were together in the attic of the old house using finger paints.  I was perfectly happy in my thoughts pushing squishy primary colors all over the large white sheet of paper with my small hands.   Suddenly my sister shrieked, jumped up and ran for the stairs that disappeared from the attic floor to safety in the room below.  I, of course, followed in suit, hands covered in combinations of red, yellow and blue ooze.  After a few quick steps and, heaven forbid I touch the railing with my multi-colored hands, my butt hit the steps and bumpity-bumpity-bumpity I bounced down the rest of the staircase.  My mother was there wiping paint off of my sister’s hands as Charlene was recounting the story of THE BIG MOUSE that ran across the attic floor!!  Certainly, this was something to be terrorized by for a lifetime.  Interestingly, in later years, there were many times my mother would talk about how we didn’t stay in that house for very long because she could hear mice running inside the walls.  And, this is where it started… “I hate mice”.

Two  

I live in what is considered country with lots of farmland, and with that comes the acceptance that there will be wildlife around.  It’s part of living here.  Taking walks and spotting the occasional deer or fox.  Hearing early morning birds chirping or woodpeckers rat-a-tat-tatting outside your window to wake you.  Having one’s lawn or garden ruined by groundhogs - it’s all part of the deal. Ahh, nature – we put up with the annoying bits because the rewards are so great.  With all of that wide-open space, my question has always been “Why on earth do some of those pesky members of the animal kingdom have to infringe on mine?”  Unfortunately, they do at times.  

One year when my sons were young, they had gotten up early on Christmas morning to run downstairs to see what Santa had left under the tree. We could hear them assessing the situation, which presents had whose name on them and excited chattering became louder.  Our cat, Sheri, had joined in the fun it seemed jumping into the presents under the tree and attacking gifts wrapped in holiday paper.  She loved paper and could keep herself occupied with paper grocery bags, racing in and out of them and moving them across the floor. Suddenly, my older son, Zac was calling out “Dad!!” Sheri’s going NUTS!!” Well, we figured we might as well start getting up as there was no rest on Christmas mornings with young kids.  My husband got downstairs first as I decided to stay a few more minutes under the warmth of the covers.  More laughter and chaos filled the air from downstairs… and then Alan said THE words.  “Sheri is chasing a MOUSE!”  That’s what all the craziness was… our cat, doing her duty, was chasing a tiny mouse in and around and under the tree.  She was DETERMINED to get that mouse and I’m sure she thought it was HER Christmas gift… a new plaything!  My husband with broom in hand, kids cheering him on, and cat acting like a lunatic I resorted to what was the best thing for me to do – return to my inner child.  Yes, I kept my butt (the same one that buppity bumped down the stairs) IN that bed, yanked the covers up over my head and said very loudly, “LET ME KNOW WHEN IT’S OVER!”

and then quietly just mumbled “oh my gawd, I hate mice!!”

Three

After high school, and a short stint working in a travel agency, I found myself going to Cosmetology School.  I don’t recall having any particular interest in this but my mother insisted I “do something and not sit at home all the time while she was working”.  OK, fine.. I’ll go.  After completing that, a couple of jobs and years later I found myself settled in one particular shop. Early Saturday mornings was a regular time for Mrs. Pellegrino to come in – we were the first ones there and part of my routine was to get things open for the day.  I got her settled in the shampoo chair by the sinks and as we chatted I wrapped a black plastic cape around her shoulders to prevent the hair dye from damaging her clothing.  I went to get supplies from the back room and upon my return I would plug in the wax warmer as I was sure she would be asking to have her stray eyebrow and random facial hair removed.  She was particular about things and I knew I had to be ready.  As I was about to do so, something caught my attention.  Facing Mrs. P, I stopped dead in my tracks!  I must have gone pale … she asked what was wrong … and I just pointed at the waxer with eyes wide.  “OH MY GOD!”  There was a tiny head with nose and ears slightly wiggling sticking up from the cold wax.  We guessed the  mouse had stepped onto the container overnight as someone hadn’t put the cover on it, got stuck and then slowly sank into what looked like a quicksand of caramel. It looked at us, nose twitching as it breathed. What to do!!!  Mrs. Pellegrino was a fierce animal lover and while I loved animals too, this was the first (and only) time I actually felt any compassion for a mouse.  Normally I hated them, they were there to terrorize me, but this was a living, breathing creature that needed help. The next few minutes were crazy as we discussed our options.  There was no way to remove him from the wax or that he would even survive if we were able to.  It was decided.  Mrs. P was going to take on the job of putting this little guy out of his misery.  I’m sure she never saw herself having this kind of experience at her weekly hair salon appointment and at least she was now dressed in a black cape for the solemn occasion.   I heard her talking quietly while she carried the waxer towards the bathroom at the back of the salon.  I was thinking she must be giving him his last rights, possibly accepting his final confessions, forgiving him for all of the people he scared in his short life.  I thought she was very strong for literally taking this into her own hands, watching for the last tiny bubbles rise to the surface of the water-filled sink.  I couldn’t watch.  And then, it was over.  

We all have experiences in life that make an impression on us, I would never have thought this would have been one of them.  However, I learned a lot about Mrs. Pellegrino that day… how much she TRULY, truly loved animals and was willing to end their suffering if need be.  I also learned that I can still hate mice when they intrude on my space, but that little one with it’s twitching nose and ears tugged at my heart that day.  This was definitely a story to remember.