No, you may not have a mouse in the house

Adorable disease vector?

Some months ago Gideon began making repeated requests for a pet of his own, specifically of the rodent variety. We have a lot going on, so turned him down flat. There may have been off-hand talk of "once we move back into the old house we might consider it," but Gideon would be a fool to take that as any kind of promise and Gideon is no fool. Nor, of course, is he obedient or easily stymied, so we should not have been surprised when he showed up one day not with a pet but with a pet home, a gnaw-proof acrylic container he'd purchased from a store. We took it from him, along with the receipt, and got his/our money back, a clear, so to speak, restatement of our no-rodent policy.

Not clear enough: we are eating dinner one day last week when Gideon calmly mentions that he found a baby mouse and has arranged for it to live at our house-under-construction. At first I think he's joking, but it's an odd joke even for Gid and I'm simply not that lucky. So after dinner we walk over to the construction site where we find, as described, a mouse living in a shoebox. A tiny thing, it's eyes not yet open, utterly helpless...I feel a little bad telling Gid that it really doesn't have a chance: at this age, a pup needs the warmth and feeding that only a mama mouse can provide. But Gideon is certain, with that certainty of his, that it will live. Fine, Gid, here's the deal: we'll put it in the shed and if it survives the cold, cold night we'll figure out what to do in the morning.

Growing up

It survives. And so begins a week of days--and what feels like many more nights--of feeding, via paint brush and eyedropper and pool in the palm of your hand, warmed goat's milk to this tiny, frantically hungry thing, which, from one day to another opens its eyes, unfolds its ears, and, by the end of the week, is giving Qubit a run for her money in the cute department. So now we have a mouse living in our laundry sink, feasting on sesame seeds and cream cheese. It recognizes its hosts, comes out of its hay pile when clucked at, climbs your hand, and finds dark safety in a fold of your shirt while you are watching TV. Some of us--Talia, Qubit--are pointedly ignoring it, but for my own part, despite the sleep deprivation, I'm charmed.

Who's cuter?

Among Brekkie's more popular posts are the occasional stories of Gideon vs. Alec (ice cream, laptop destruction, curtain destruction). They all take the same form: Gideon wants what Alec does not and guess who wins. This story is, seemingly, in that rich tradition: Gideon triumphs again, employing focus and force of will, and by playing the long game. But this time that's only part of the story. Because this time I ended up wanting Gid to win. And because this time he lost.

Back where you belong

Store-bought mice typically live only a couple of years, and a wild mouse in the wild is lucky to live even that long. However, wild mice in captivity can live seven years or more. This raises an interesting philosophical dilemma: is it better to live your natural life, foraging and mating and fighting and mating and wandering and mating, for a single year, or to have seven years in jail not doing much of anything? I know the right answer, and Gid did too. Farewell sweet mouse, and thank you, Gideon, for arranging this very special experience for both of us.