I’ve always loved animals. When I was 5, we lived in this flat over a shop. We couldn’t have a dog or a cat; we wouldn’t have been able to afford to feed them anyway, but Christmas day came, and my Dad turned up with 2 white mice in a glass-topped home for me.
I was so excited; it was totally unexpected. I hadn’t asked for a pet. I don’t remember what I called them; I’m not sure I called them anything. My mom, however, didn’t share my enthusiasm, and she and Dad had a few words in the kitchen. I wasn’t paying attention; I was busy playing with my mice. When Dad came back in, he explained to me how to clean them, how much to feed them, etc., and I nodded, I’m sure.
I expect a lot of this stuff would fall on Mom, I mean, I’m 5… though I did know how to change a plug, and a few other things no 5-year-old should know about electrics, not sure how I made it to 6 to be honest!. We had a fish tank, and I would clean that, check the filters, clean the glass, sometimes emptying the tank, and sift the gravel, etc. The fish would live in a huge glass sweet jar for a short time while I did this. I’m sure they were happy to get back in the tank. So I wasn’t completely useless; maybe I would have cleaned them out fine by myself, who knows, not me, because I never found out.
On Boxing Day (the day after Christmas), we went to my aunties’ for dinner, and I asked if I could take some of the Cracker Barrel cheese back with me, for the mice. I was given a smallish piece wrapped in foil. I was chuffed, and as soon as we got home, I fed the mice, who seemed to enjoy it. Mom said, “Don’t give them too much, it’s quite rich, it might not be good for them,” or words to that effect. I’d call this foreshadowing in a story now, but then it was just Mom being over careful, so of course I gave them the lot, which wasn’t a great deal, and soon after went off to bed.
A death in the family
The next day I woke up and went straight into the living room to see my mice, only to find they were DEAD! I was upset, of course, and Mom came in, gave me a hug, and said she was sorry. She also said, “Maybe you gave them too much cheese,” which made me cry more. I was very upset, and I wanted a professional opinion. I wanted to take them to the vet and discover why they died. I wanted to know the cause, and I was very insistent. I blame this on being raised by Quincy MD, Columbo, and The Open University programs on TV. This needed investigating, and I needed facts…. But until then, I’ll play with my Lego.
Mom did listen, and my cousin Beverly came over. She was training to be a veterinary nurse, so to me, she was an expert. She stood in the living room, one mouse in each hand, and hummed a thoughtful hum. I was rooted to the spot, waiting for her professional verdict. Finally, she put them down and turned to me and said, “They died of profound ‘rigor mortis’, and it had nothing to do with the cheese.” She also said that it wasn’t my fault, it’s just how it is sometimes. I felt vindicated and happy with her clinical diagnosis, and later that day, I buried them in the yard in a small box.
It’s Murder!
I know what you are thinking, but at 5, I had no idea what rigor mortis was; it sounded good enough for me, and I didn’t know the adults had lied to me (though Bev in a very kind way), and a great mouse murder had taken place. It was years later that Mom told me the truth, that she had poisoned the mice, and the murder weapon was… the Cracker Barrel cheese, which I had delivered! When at my aunties’, my uncle had added rat poison to the cheese and wrapped it in foil. I didn’t like Cracker Barrel, which was a good thing, as it was expensive, so I was safe, though I would never have let my kids handle poison MOM! (She’s dead, she can’t hear me shouting).
Now, at this point, I’m sure you are thinking what a nice thing for my Dad to do, and what an awful thing for my Mom to do. Ok, granted, Mom doesn’t come out shining here, but here’s the thing. Dad knew my mom had a fear of mice, bordering on a phobia. She had just about held it together when Dad opened the box. Maybe he just wasn’t thinking, but if you knew my Dad, there was never a time he wasn’t thinking. They had been married for years before splitting up, and he had to know about Mom’s fear.
Dad was not a malicious man, so I think this was one of those thoughtless, disrespectful things people do when they decide they know best and how you feel is unimportant, irrational and ‘you should just get over it anyway’. Either way, it was not fun for me, and I think that’s why I remember it with such clarity… The mouse house was on a pine-stained dining table with swept legs, which sat flush against a wall of the living room, just on the right as you entered from the landing, etc. I can still see Bev, mice in her hands when she was examining them, Mom standing behind her, next to the door. Now, I’m not going to blame this moment for ruining my childhood, or anything like that, but it is clear that traumatic events leave a scar, which is why I think it’s important to understand them.
Final thoughts
When I started writing this, I thought it would be one of those awful funny stories, good for a few involuntary laughs, I mean, I’ve laughed about it, telling it before, but now, upon reflection, it’s a little sad. Not just for the innocent mice, but for the fact that my parents obviously still had a lot of stuff to sort out, which was more important than looking after their child, or at least that’s how it felt. Now, I just see 2 human beings struggling with a life neither of them expected.
