My childhood friend Andy loved animals, but his mother would not allow pets. To convince his mom that he should have a pet, we decided that he should
start out small. We biked to a discount store and Andy selected two mice, one
white with red eyes and one black and white, which he toted home in a cardboard carrier. Of course as kids do, he gave no thought as to how to
house them once he got them home.
The doorbell rang that evening and there stood Andy holding out a paper sack with the mouse carrier
inside. The mice scratched at the cardboard furiously. He explained that his
mother went totally whacko at the sight of the rodents. She threatened to take a broom to them and
Andy thought their best bet for survival
lay somewhere besides his house. He thrust the sack into my hands and insisted
that I take it. I closed the sack up and shut the door.
I scurried off into my sister’s room and showed her the mice. I dramatically recounted the tale of Andy’s mouse killing mom. Sis agreed not to tell our parents. We would take care of them ourselves.
We made a nest for them in a cigar box and hid the box on a
high shelf in the closet. We used jar lids for water bowls and fed them cat
food. When funds were available, I rode my bike to the store and bought rodent
food. Once or twice a day when mom was preoccupied we took them out and played with
them. They would sit on our shoulders while we
walked around. Sometimes Andy came over and played with them too.
These mice had the life. They milled about on the shelf
leaving poo all over. They chewed up my sister’s doll clothes. As far as we
knew they never left the shelf unless we took them off of it. We explained to
the mice that we had cats and that it would be wise not to leave the shelf. We
were sure they understood us because the cats never found them.
We had shut the door to the room to clean the nest and feed the
mice. Mom threw open the
door to tell us dinner was ready.
Alas, we were caught mouse-handed. She froze, stared for a
moment, and then began a vigorous rant to rival all rants.
I was devastated as I imagined my angry mother flattening
them with a broom.
Mom marched us into the living room and stood us in front of
our father. My sister clutched the cigar box tightly as the mice tried to poke their
noses out. Mom continued her yelling until
my father held up his hand and asked her to stop.
“Can I speak to the kids?,” he asked as he continued to
give mom the hand. She continued to look
very angry but she had stopped yelling.
“Well,” said Dad, “where did these critters come from?”
I explained in dramatic detail how we saved them from a
cruel death at the hand of Andy’s mom, that we had to take them, and that we hid them because we knew Mom might be
inclined to whack them just like Andy’s mom.
“Hmmpf,” groaned Dad, “how long have you been ‘saving’ these
critters from doom?”
I confessed that we had been keeping
them for about a month.
“A month?” he questioned. He was smiling and I was not sure
how to take it. The smile grew wider and he started to laugh. He let out a hoot
and dropped back into his easy chair. I was relieved and quite confused by his
display.
My mother was floored. She was strangely silent.
“Oh now,” Dad went on, “they have taken care of them for a
month and we have not even noticed. No reason to turn them loose now. We should get them a better house though.”
The next day Mom took us to get a proper mouse
cage. She told us that they must stay in the cage and never be let out. Of
course, we still let them out when she wasn't around.
About 9 months later, the cat knocked the cage off the table
and broke it open. The mice became cat food. While I am sure that Mom was not sad about the
rodent’s demise, she did actually care that we were so sad about their death.
We moped about for weeks holding a dangerous grudge against the evil feline.
In an effort to help us through our loss, Mom allowed us to
pick out a hamster to replace the expired mice. She never touched it, looked at
it, or cared for it. She didn't complain about it either and she even paid for his food .
My sister and I were relieved that our mom was not like Andy’s and that, while she did not care for rodents, she finally accepted
our need to have them. I also found myself
being thankful that my often disinterested father had found humor in the
situation and had come to our defense. He understood our innocent need to show
compassion to outcasts even if they were just mice. While my parents certainly
had different reactions to the situation, in the end, they both came around to
teaching us an unforgettable lesson. True compassion is never wasted and always its own reward.
