Funny how context changes everything. A mouse in my house? Totally disgusting. I would be the first to put out the traps (though please don't make me empty them). But a mouse in my gardening shed? It is too reminiscent of all the propagandizing children's stories. I think of Beatrix Potter's friendly little mice families, or Mrs. Frisby (and the Rats of NIMH). A mouse just belongs in the gardening shed, and it would seem an improper violence to hurt her.
Of course, the image of the personified, loving mouse mama is built up by the fact that this mouse was with her family. It all began innocently enough. It was long past time to transplant the tomato plant to a bigger pot. Jeremy ventured into the shed for the leftover bag of potting soil. My attention was drawn from across the yard by the way he simultaneously jumped a foot in the air and grabbed John and tossed him backwards. Fortunately, it was not too fearsome a beast that had so startled Jeremy by moving from inside the bag of dirt.
Jeremy poked at the bag a bit until the mouse hopped out. What we hadn't expected was to see her baby clinging to her belly as she jumped, lightning quick, out of the bag and back into the depths of the shed. The kids kibbitzed a bit about the excitement and Jeremy turned again to pour out the dirt. The mouse was back already! Wondering what would lead to such quick persistence to occupy an obviously imperiled space, he looked more closely and discovered not one but four mouse babies nestled in the bag with their newly returned mom.
Now, what to do? I don't care what the species; who could hurt an infant? And almost worse, who could chase away a nursing mom, leaving the helpless infants to a slow and certain death? But, we needed the potting soil. And, Jeremy protested, these were pests; vermin infesting our shed and living fat on our bag of grass seed. Certainly we didn't want to nurture the next generation of them, as well?
Well, the kids were on the scene, so there was really no debating to be done, and Jeremy knew it. He set about first fishing out all the fluffy bits of fabric, grass, whatever, that the mama had collected into the potting soil bag to make a large soft nest. He transfered these back to the shelf next to the grass seed, where the bag of soil had been. One baby was found in the nest and went along for the ride.
For better or worse, our kids can count to four. That was only one baby mouse. I certainly didn't want to go fishing for critters, but I felt a bit creepy about having tiny baby mice buried in the pot with our tomato plant. This was one of those times that I am happy to be married to a man who doesn't mind playing the macho man when I need him to. Armed with thick leather work gloves, he began slowly pouring out the bag of soil, sifting throuh each layer.
"I see another baby!" shouted James. Sure enough, just when I thought the other three had simply vanished from the bag. Jeremy scooped it up with a bit more fluff and plopped it down with its sibling on the shelf. Now we knew there was hope if we kept looking, and the very last bit of dirt in the bag revealed baby number 4.
"I wanna see baby mouse! I wanna see baby mouse!" screamed John, in one of his most complete and clearly spoken sentences to date. Jeremy held up the poor, tiny thing for inspection - his eyes still closed and his mouth vainly searching for milk from his mother. Much as I am not an animal fan, it was hard not to root for the little guy when you saw him in that state. John demanded to see him back in his nest, where just a nose poked out of the pile of fluff.
Confident that we would not find an animal skeleton in our tomato pot, the transplant was quickly concluded. I shooed the kids inside to wash their hands for PBJ sandwiches while Jeremy cleaned up. He came in for lunch with a happy report - the mama mouse had been spotted running along the shelf near her newly transplanted nest and babies, and all should be well in the family again.
Now, if only they will stay outside and out of sight, so I don't regret encouraging (ordering?) Jeremy to spare them! They aren't nearly as cute as a cat, and I only tolerate those from a (non-sneezing) distance.
Such drama for a summer afternoon.
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