Mousey Musings

This week we enjoyed some remarkably beautiful weather with January temperatures upwards of 50 degrees.  The weather was a cheerful topic shared with a friend over dinner.  The conversation wandered into how the warmth has caused our beloved house cats to yowl obnoxiously, demanding to be let outside. We debated the pros and cons of letting house cats outside to hunt. It seemed a sensible choice as we speculated that the unseasonable warmth would result in a surge in the spring mouse population.  From there my mind meandered into childhood memories of growing up, with mice, on the farm.

Every fall, as temperatures descended, dozens of freeloading farm mice would pack up their families, grab their little mouse suitcases and move into the thick layer of straw which was placed over the septic system next to our house.  Intended to protect the underground plumbing from freezing, the straw was prime real estate for mice. As a child I imagined that big straw pile as a cozy mouse city, a maze complete with little mouse family rooms all connected by teensy mouse tunnels. My imagination created a mouse mayor whose job it was to keep things running smoothly for the city through the long winter. Mr. Mouse Mayor would encourage their secluded spirits by promising that next fall he'd find a way to move everyone into the "big house." For a mouse, the farm house would be the ultimate winter hostel. Need to set up a bedroom hideaway? No problem. There were endless places to hide away and plenty of fabric to gnaw up to make into soft, downy beds. Hungry for cereal in the middle of the night? Cheerios could be yours with just one chomp through a thin cereal box. If you wished for heartier fare, an all-you-can eat buffet was open 24/7. You just had to be willing to do some climbing through the cupboards.  Best of all, there were NO CATS in the big house, lurking and plotting to ruin your day. As a little girl, I brewed up these countless imaginary mice stories to entertain myself during the long and cold winter days.

As I got older my perspective on mice changed. Once personified in my imagination, the truth of their filth and destruction changed the role of mice in my imaginary stories.  Gone was their cartoon-like appeal.  No longer did I draw pictures of an apron-wearing mama mouse tucking her sweet babies into little walnut shell cradles.  There were no more stories about Daddy mouse bringing supper home, carrying a slice of cheese and a saltine cracker on his back.  I don't remember any particular experience that dissolved my once naively sweet imaginings. Maybe it was the smell from the decomposing mouse that died in a furnace vent one winter. Or finding ragged mouse-made holes in my treasured vinyl  Barbie dollhouse. How could they ? !  I'll never forget the bloated mouse buoyed belly up in a forgotten bucket of water.  That was a quick lesson in Decomposition 101. Perhaps it was the startling awareness that mouse turds look like raisins. I'd really like to thank the adult that pointed that out to me. I don't believe I ate raisins for the next 10 years.

As I grew, so did my understanding of why it was important to control vermin on the farm. It was a primary role of the cats, the farm's feline overlords, to keep the mouse minions in check. Every mouse taken out by a cat was one less to clean out of a trap. When spring arrived, the cats would go into overdrive chasing mice. Having been drawn from their winter cocoon by the rising temperatures, the mice provided great sport for the cats. Removing the straw insulation from the septic field would cause a "cirque de mouse" style eviction to occur. Dozens of mice would skitter frantically away from their disrupted nests, weaving and leaping in desperate attempts to dodge the eager cats. This cat versus mouse rodeo would only end after the felines had their fill of mouse pate and tired of the chase. For us kids, the event provided morbidly amusing entertainment -  a little "Wild Kingdom," down-on-the-farm style.

When my son was about 4, I watched through the dining room window as he eagerly followed his Grandpa outside to "help" with the annual straw removal from the septic. With wide-eyed wonder, he excitedly flapped his arms and jumped from foot to foot as the cat and mouse chaos ensued around him. In no time, each cat was chomping heartily on a mouse, it's skinny gray tail still wiggling, a jiggly protrusion out of the cat's mouth. Ignoring the mayhem, Grandpa continued to pitch fork after fork of hay into the wagon.  Inquisitively, my son asked, "Why do the cats eat the mouses tail last?"  Without missing a beat, my Dad replied, "So they can use it for a toothpick."  To my son it was a very logical answer for two reasons. He'd watched Grandpa reach for a toothpick at the end of every meal,  and as a 4 year old, he was convinced his Grandpa knew EVERYTHING. I chuckle every time I think of Dad's nonchalant answer and my son's innocence. 

Well, hopefully the neighborhood will be spared a mouse led take over this spring. But if there is, 
mice beware.  Team Kitty is ready to reduce you to toothpicks.