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I once used to invite people to my home in Chicago to; "Listen to some sounds." Now that I'm living in New Mexico I invite people over to see my pump house. A pump house out here is NOT a franchised version of a Loop bar. It is just what it sounds like, a place wherein a (water) pump sits. Actually, "resides" is more like it. Down in the depths of my pump house, in a 4' deep pit lined with cinder block and stuffed with pink insulation, my 1/2 horse Briggs & Stratton water pump resides in the kind of comfort few of us have experienced since we left the womb. Which is where the mice come in. In real life and as the focus of this tale. Since the pump house must be kept warm and is technically a kind of shared territory, we accepted the fact that mice would visit. Of course visiting is one thing, staying is another. At first, being kind hearted members of the Sierra Club and subscribers to the philosophy of the interrelatedness of all life, we determined that we would not kill the mice but live in harmony with them. This was a mistake. Mice don't want harmony, not New Mexico mice at least. They want symphonic cacophonies. They want vast gatherings. "The more the merrier!" is a mouse credo. Indeed, it is the core of mouse religion. The first problem was that mice have this chewing obsession. In the pump house they decided to chew on the high-pressure line. When they made the first hole in it they must have jumped with glee as the water sprayed everywhere in a fine mist. The second thing that happened at that point was that the pump began to run. And run. And run. I replaced the line, thinking that it was just a stupid-mouse blunder. The next night they did it again. Ah, what fun they were having down in the ol' pump house. I replaced the line again, this time shielding it with old Canada Dry cans. They'd have to really get serious about their water shows to get through that armor. The end came one night after hearing, for the second or third night in a row, the Rockett chorus line of many mice dancing in our walls, in the ceiling over our bed, in the duct work everywhere, all joyously celebrating their good fortune at having come upon a couple of conservationists. It was then we decided that clearly this was a territorial dispute, which had come down to; the mice or us. We bought humane traps. And, just in case we had to set an example now and then, a couple of the classic snap traps. After two weeks we discovered that the mice continually preferred suicide rather than the relocation option For a time we averaged a mouse a day and, as the weeks went by, we soon got over mourning rituals and our burial ceremonies grew shorter and shorter until they were down to mouse shot puts. As for the cat solution, this proved to be trouble added to chaos. The cat was moderately effective. But though he could catch mice, he enjoyed their company too long, sometimes more than a day, and always IN the house. When his nature finally asserted itself he was not a fastidious diner, tending to leave mouse remains wherever they might fall. Always on the rug. I won't get graphic here. Suffice it to say we became experts in mouse anatomy. A month went by after the outbreak of hostilities, and it seemed we weren't making much of a dent in the mouse battalions, so we had to ratchet up to chemical warfare. Poison, it turned out, was the only way. Even though we finally got the upper hand using this draconian solution, New Mexico mice have a determination that sets them apart from any mice I have ever been aquatinted with. Take the case of "The mouse who loved us." One night, long after we had triumphed over the hordes, we heard a rustling in the kitchen and traced it to the towel drawer. Exploration the next morning revealed that there were plans afoot for setting up housekeeping. We baited and set up one of the humane traps and the next morning, we had the little guy. I transported him (or her) a mile down the road to the vicinity of the mailboxes and set him free in a nice field. The next morning, having reset the trap just in case there might be more visitations, we had another. I repeated the journey. The next morning, another. I said to Elizabeth; "Do you think that this might be the same mouse? I mean, why would different mice be coming to this drawer every time?" She said; "Can't be." I decided to mark this mouse and put a white dot of paint on his back, and drove him down to the mailboxes. The next morning there he was in all his dotted splendor! "TaDah!" He had returned triumphant having traveled past four houses and multiple towel drawer possibilities having transcended space, owls, hawks, coyotes and The Cat. This time I took him ten miles away to an up-scale neighborhood. To a place where the towels were fuzzy and plentiful. To a place where he might be regarded as a, ".quaint woodland creature." and be greeted with choruses of, "How cute!" and live out his days in mouse heaven. So far he hasn't made his way back. Share the wealth I say.
Dick Prosapio ©2001
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