Of Mice and Mom (and Dad)

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.