Mind: Life Strategies
The Saga of Peanut, the Mouse
Sometimes, pets teach things other than responsibility.
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Last year, when my daughter, Danielle, was 9 years old, her cousin gave her two tiny, brown mice. I told myself that caring for them would teach her responsibility.
We named them Fuzzy and Buzzy. Buzzy’s name was more than a rhyme. Her little body buzzed. Over time, the vibrating turned into shaking and then a rhythmic jerking. One day she was stiff in her cage, Fuzzy sniffing at her with concern.
Danielle wailed, deeply affected. We had a burial ceremony in Grandma’s garden. Danielle cried on and off for three days, even at school.
I thought Fuzzy looked lonely, so we went to the pet store to buy her a friend, and came home with two, for just $3. Fuzzy attacked them. We returned to the pet store to buy another cage, and named the newcomers Peanut and Macie.
In two days, their coats were glossier, their bodies fuller from the nuts we fed them. In fact, Peanut looked obese. When I held her, she felt lumpy. “Uh, oh,” I said, “I wonder if she’s pregnant.”
The next day I told Danielle, “Check her cage every day. We don’t know when she’ll give birth.” Just moments later, Danielle cried, “Mom! Peanut had babies!”
Peanut had given birth to 15 babies – pink and worm-like (newborn mice are called pinkies). Over the next two weeks, their little black dots became eyes, their noses protruded, and they grew fur. Danielle wanted to keep them all, but settled for two. A few months later, they were as big as their mother.
Now, nine months later, Danielle’s excitement has waned. She still holds them, but I clean the cages more often than not.
A few months ago, I noticed Peanut scratching furiously, and she began losing hair. A small bald spot grew to cover half her body. I tried everything I could think of, but nothing worked.
I took Peanut to the veterinarian, who gave me a liquid antibiotic and a bill for $80. Twice a day for the next three weeks, I held her with one hand, gently pried open her mouth, and fed her a drop of antibiotic with a syringe. I bathed her each day to help relieve the itch. Just when it seemed it might work, we ran out of the medicine.
Peanut scratched more and more, squeaking with displeasure or pain, and nipping herself hard enough to draw blood. She spun around in circles, as if trying to catch whatever was making her itch. It was painful to watch.
Finally, I called the vet’s office. “How much to euthanize a mouse?” I asked. Fifteen dollars. Danielle and I drove to the animal hospital with Peanut in a little box. I said bye to Peanut and left quickly. Danielle sobbed quietly. I felt sad when I thought of Peanut that week, but relieved that she’s no longer suffering.
Has Danielle learned responsibility from having pets? I don’t think so (my fault). But she’s learned plenty about living and dying, about motherhood and disease, and, perhaps, powerlessness.
A few days ago, an envelope arrived in the mail. It was a card from the veterinarian’s office, signed by each of the staff. “So sorry for your loss,” it said. “Peanut was a special little mouse.” I giggled with delight. That little touch of humanity was worth the entire $95.
We named them Fuzzy and Buzzy. Buzzy’s name was more than a rhyme. Her little body buzzed. Over time, the vibrating turned into shaking and then a rhythmic jerking. One day she was stiff in her cage, Fuzzy sniffing at her with concern.
Danielle wailed, deeply affected. We had a burial ceremony in Grandma’s garden. Danielle cried on and off for three days, even at school.
I thought Fuzzy looked lonely, so we went to the pet store to buy her a friend, and came home with two, for just $3. Fuzzy attacked them. We returned to the pet store to buy another cage, and named the newcomers Peanut and Macie.
In two days, their coats were glossier, their bodies fuller from the nuts we fed them. In fact, Peanut looked obese. When I held her, she felt lumpy. “Uh, oh,” I said, “I wonder if she’s pregnant.”
The next day I told Danielle, “Check her cage every day. We don’t know when she’ll give birth.” Just moments later, Danielle cried, “Mom! Peanut had babies!”
Peanut had given birth to 15 babies – pink and worm-like (newborn mice are called pinkies). Over the next two weeks, their little black dots became eyes, their noses protruded, and they grew fur. Danielle wanted to keep them all, but settled for two. A few months later, they were as big as their mother.
Now, nine months later, Danielle’s excitement has waned. She still holds them, but I clean the cages more often than not.
A few months ago, I noticed Peanut scratching furiously, and she began losing hair. A small bald spot grew to cover half her body. I tried everything I could think of, but nothing worked.
I took Peanut to the veterinarian, who gave me a liquid antibiotic and a bill for $80. Twice a day for the next three weeks, I held her with one hand, gently pried open her mouth, and fed her a drop of antibiotic with a syringe. I bathed her each day to help relieve the itch. Just when it seemed it might work, we ran out of the medicine.
Peanut scratched more and more, squeaking with displeasure or pain, and nipping herself hard enough to draw blood. She spun around in circles, as if trying to catch whatever was making her itch. It was painful to watch.
Finally, I called the vet’s office. “How much to euthanize a mouse?” I asked. Fifteen dollars. Danielle and I drove to the animal hospital with Peanut in a little box. I said bye to Peanut and left quickly. Danielle sobbed quietly. I felt sad when I thought of Peanut that week, but relieved that she’s no longer suffering.
Has Danielle learned responsibility from having pets? I don’t think so (my fault). But she’s learned plenty about living and dying, about motherhood and disease, and, perhaps, powerlessness.
A few days ago, an envelope arrived in the mail. It was a card from the veterinarian’s office, signed by each of the staff. “So sorry for your loss,” it said. “Peanut was a special little mouse.” I giggled with delight. That little touch of humanity was worth the entire $95.