Friday, September 26, 2008

ode to Olivia... memories of a mouse

An era has ended. It was not socialist era or a fascist era but an era of mice. Olivia has died. I found her last night, feet up, half-buried in her bedding. We had a good run, Olivia and I. She was a good mouse, good as a mouse could be. I'll now recount the saga of the mouse era in all its glory.

In the early Spring of freshman year, Maggie and I were feeling restless, lonely, and in need of something to cuddle. This is pretty much how we always felt at Goucher. Maybe it was these normal feelings in addition to the Spring thaw. Perhaps it was the resurgence of the Goucher Plague, and we thought we could test some vaccines against it. It could have been our impending choral trip to the Naval Academy in Annapolis. Anyway, after what felt like a carefully and painstakingly discussed, years-long debate (which in actuality was conceived the same night it was carried out), we hopped in my Honda Del Sol and took a trip to the PetsMart (Pets Mart? Pet Smart?) down Goucher Boulevard.

Our original plan was to buy a single mouse. We would mete out this mouse between the two of us. It was to be a shared custody situation. Of course, we realized in our heart of hearts that the sharing would never work out as we were planning. One of us would take all the responsibility and would be lucky to receive monthly mouse support checks from the other. So we decided, on the way to the store, that we would each get a mouse and have play dates when we cleaned out their cages.

Upon arrival, the snarky "small animal specialist" informs us that mice are social creatures. They thrive when they live with other mice. They play, the run, they are very happy. So we would each have to get two mice. The problem was, there were five mice in the holding cage. Buying four would mean leaving the last, undesirable one alone, solitary. Basically, in entropy until the next shipment of mice brothers and sisters arrived. I just couldn't have that. After much argument as to who would get three mice and who two, most directly related to one particular, scruffy, gram-sized mouse, it was decided I would care for the three small mice and Maggie would mother the two larger.

I thought the baby mouse was cute. Her scruffiness endeared me. Her runt status made me gaga. Unfortunately, she was very sick. She died that night, unnamed and unbaptized, a pagan baby. I buried her in the mulch outside of Pearlstone. I was devastated and vowed to care for my two remaining mice, whom I promptly named. Olivia and Princess Buttercup. Maggie had Fudge and Arthur.

Our mice, by the way, were contraband in the dorms. There was a several hundred dollar fine for each, so that, between the four, we had a few thousand dollars of illegal goods. In one situation, we were warned last minute by a friend coming through to do inspections. He shouted dramatically into the room before entering with an all-too-serious puss of an RA. I had just enough time to stash the girls in the closet and swipe the bureau of any telltale mouse droppings or bedding. (They did make quite a mess).

I would put them in a giant ball to do cleanings and laugh at them when they bumped into chairs or got stuck in corners. I would take them out on the quad and stick them on peoples' heads. I would become extremely impressed when they could go an entire half hour without pooping. It happened, I swear.

Then things began to go downhill. Arthur died. Concerned about Fudge's well-being, we rushed to the store and brought home Nicodemus, a darling black-and-white with a fierce personality. Fudge immediately tried to eat him and we soon found Nicodemus was missing large amounts of fur.

Then, in a horrendous turn, Princess Buttercup died. I found her, still warm, on the lower floor of the mouse house. I immediately extricated her, so as not to traumatize Olivia. I buried her in the woods. Attached as I'd become, a brief eulogy was said, with a delineation of her better qualities. I cried.

Then Fudge died, possibly for his sins of cannibalism. Possibly from old age or improper care or disease. Not wanting to give into the vicious cycle of companion-providing, Maggie set Nicodemus free in her backyard in Downingtown over Spring Break. She was so scared to tell me for fear that I would be displeased. But, in truth, I began to wonder if such a life of freedom, where she could find other mice and possibly be eaten by a hawk, was preferable for Olivia, over a life absent of a companion.

But I could not let her go. Several times I thought she was dying and nursed her back to health. Her ears would get red and bleed, she would lose fur, and then, miraculously, she would get better. Nevertheless, she was no longer a young mouse. Olivia and I still had our good times. She made the move with me out to Pittsburgh and sufficiently stank up my room. Squirt continued to try to eat her and her bedding and poop. And we still had playtime. But no more. Those days are over. She has gone onto a better place, and I don't mean the trashcan for the the garbageman to pick up on Monday. She had a good life. She was a good mouse. Here's to the end of an era.

1 comment:

Mr. Apron said...

We "buried" three this last week.

Olivia was a sweet mouse who never stole her way into our chocolate chips or ate our dog food. She was content on visits to live on top of the stereo and chuck bedding and poop all over it.