The Christmas Mouse

        Finally, I understand the profound and intense underlying themes of  the children's book "If You Give A Mouse A Cookie,"  a simple saga written by Laura Numeroff which describes what happens when one little mouse takes control of an otherwise normal houseshold.  In the book, a complicated chain of events is set into motion when a little boy gives a mouse a cookie, which leads to his wanting a glass of milk, which leads to an on-going series of never-ending projects, which builds and builds until finally, the exhausted boy falls asleep while the mouse gets another cookie.
     But first, let me explain how I came to this complete comprehension of a deceptively simple children's tale, a complicated lesson learned not from my last five semesters of college experience, but rather, from an innocuous little Christmas mouse.
      Upon arriving back in Richmond for the holidays, one of my first undertakings was to dive into the marathon schedule of Christmas cooking, a massive on-going project that involved the production of fruit cakes, date balls, cheese straws, cookies, and of course, sausage balls.  Pounds of sausage balls. Mountains of sausage balls. In fact, I pitied the poor pigs who had to lay down their porky lives just so our family could consume obscene quantities of sausage balls, but the sacrifice had been made and it was our duty to make sure their ground up hindquarters and rumps and roasts were lovingly used during this holy season. So on this first morning home, I was on a mission to make sausage balls, that seasonal morsel, the harbinger of Christmas, the family favorite.
     I assembled the Bisquick, the extra-sharp cheddar cheese and the spicy hot sausage in a row on the countertop, then proceeded to shred, chop, and measure.  First, I mixed the cheese and sausage into an even blend of soft pink and gold, then added four cups of Bisquick, squished and squashed the powder evenly into the meat and cheese, and finally began the tedious process of rolling out trays and trays of  marble-sized balls.  As I rolled the first batch of mixture in my hands, I noticed an unusual spice appearing in the blend, a small, black pellet, approximately the size of a grain of rice,  a spice that was not familiar in my repetoire of Jimmy Dean or Bisquick ingredients.  I plucked several grains from the bowl and examined them closely, rolling them on my fingertips as I tried to identify their origins.            
     "Anise? " I wondered. "Too squishy," I decided. 
     "Too soft for peppercorns or celery seed,"  I muttered to myself as I continued to examine the pellets, wondering what this curious seasoning could be.
      I rummaged for the sausage wrapper in the trash and read the list of spices on the back, searching for a clue to the identity of this new seasoning. Not seeing anything unusual on that label, I grabbed the box of Bisquick, read the list  of ingredients on the side,  then lifted the clear cellophane wrapper from the box and peered at the contents. Scattered throughout the powdery white mix of flour and baking powder were the identical rice-sized grains of the mysterious spice.  As realization started to spread through my brain, I ran to the pantry, shifted cans and boxes, and to my horror, discovered the same pellets sprinkled all throughout the shelves, across the tops of cans, behind the canisters and the jars of jelly, under the boxes of cereal and the bags of pasta.  I had seen these pellets before. I knew these pellets. I understood these pellets. MOUSE!
       I glared at the three dogs sitting in the middle of the kitchen, tails happily thumping on the floor as they eyed the tray of sausage balls.
      "Some help you are," I grumbled. "I'm trading you all in for a decent cat."
      I immediately tossed the entire batch of sausage balls into the trash and scrubbed my hands until they were fiery red. I donned latex gloves and furiously fumigated the pots and pans, then began the process of removing every single item from the pantry. I dispatched Chris to the hardware store for traps and poisons and anything else that could conquer a mouse invasion. I sent him to the grocery for fresh boxes of Bisquick, sausage and cheese.  I scrubbed shelves and floor and walls with disinfectant. I washed and cleaned until every trace of mouse had been removed and the pantry smelled like the interior of an operating room, pungent with antibacterial and bleach. 
     Perusing the piles of cans and bags, I tossed anything that appeared to have been nibbled on or tasted or touched by a rodent. I washed the top of every single can and checked every box and bag. I decided that while I was cleaning, it was also a good time to check the expiration labels on all the items, so I did that and made a trash pile of expired goods.
    In the meantime, Chris returned from the store, laden with bags of rodent revenge and groceries, looked at the mess I had made, and commented that it would be a good idea to make a bag for the food pantry while we were at it. So, I added another pile of washed and unexpired staples to drop off for the homeless, then unloaded the bags from the store.
      As I stood there eyeing the piles of cans, I  decided that instead of returning everything to the freshly washed shelves, it would be a good time to use up a lot of the food by making a pot of soup. So, I  picked out cans of corn and tomatoes and beans and hauled them to the counter by the stove.
     "Chris, can you get me a package of ground beef from the freezer? I'm going to make soup with some of these canned vegetables."
      He opened the door to the freezer, handed me the meat, looked at the crowded shelves, and said,
       "I'm going to clean out the freezer."
       "Add this to the soup, and this, and this," he commented as he tossed out frozen goods and removed shelves.
       Well, you can't have soup without cornbread, so I grabbed a canister of cornmeal and whipped up a batch to serve with the simmering soup.  And if you have soup, you have to have fresh oranges with it, so I opened the fridge and cut up some navels.
     About this time, Bro walked into the kitchen and asked,
" Hey, what happened to the sausage balls?"
     So, while the soup simmered and the bread baked, I began the process of making a fresh batch of sausage balls.
        The simple decision to start my holiday cooking had been manipulated by a mere mouse into a marathon event of cleaning out the pantry, which lead to a trip to the hardware store, which lead to a trip to the grocery store, which lead to the reshelving of canned goods and food items, which lead to the making of soup, which lead to the cleaning out of the freezer, which lead to cooking cornbread and cutting oranges, and which finally resulted in the first batch of sausage balls coming out of the oven at seven o'clock that night.
      And that was when I finally understood the concept of "If You Give A Mouse A Cookie." It must be a mouse thing, that ability to set off a chain reaction that grows and grows and grows, an almost unstoppable train ride of events that gains momentum with each twist and turn and leaves you exhausted and wondering, "What happened to the day?" when all you had planned to do was make a batch of sausage balls.  All that, simply because of a mouse.
      The traps have remained empty, but thankfully, no trace of the mouse has returned to my pantry and no mysterious spice has appeared in my baking. My kitchen is sparkling clean, the food pantry has received a generous donation, and my family is growing fat on sausage balls.

      I never saw that mouse, but sometimes, I think I  hear him laughing at me through the walls as he dances among the rafters of my house.

    

   

The Pooman Problem

The great and mighty Gus

     Gus was not simply a dog, a standard poodle, he was one of those rare breeds of half-poodle, half-human, a “pooman”, a creature that could read your thoughts, intuit your emotions, sense your moods, predict your habits, and make an imprint on your heart that was eternal. With a fierce loyalty that belied his gentle nature, he would guard the house and protect the children, standing resolute and firm between us and the world, never letting a stranger come between him and his beloved family.  He was a steady presence by my side, a loyal friend, a wise old soul, a quiet warrior. Gus was my companion when I walked, the confident I would talk to when worries troubled my soul, my travelling buddy in the car, the one who was always thrilled to see me when I walked in the door. I would have mortgaged our house to save Gus when he was dying; in fact, I practically did, trying any measure to gain the four extra years we expected of our eleven year old canine child. In the end, despite the numerous medical procedures, the multiple days in the hospital, the hours of feeding him droplets of water by mouth, the forcing of teaspoons of baby food into the withering body, the cradling and the crying and the praying, it was all futile. Gus slipped away from us on a brilliant fall morning, bounding into the eternal, leaving a wound in our hearts that has yet to heal.  The good dog, the noble boy, the best friend- gone. He has since been the measure of all creatures on earth, the standard which no other living animal has yet to attain, the ultimate companion, the unsurpassed. 

    Sugar Pie, on the other hand, our scrawny female counterpoint to the mighty Gus, was 100% poodle. Not one speck of human blood coursed beneath her curly coat. We always laughed at her and said, “Well, we didn’t get out money’s worth out of that one.”  She weighed slightly less than 35 pounds, half the weight of our proud, prancing big white boy. “She’s real pretty,” we would explain, “but not the brightest bulb in the lamp.”  Whereas Gus would practically carry on a conversation with us, Sug was mute, a little aloof, standoffish.  The male dogs all loved her, sniffing and chasing and pawing after her, to which she just curled up into a bored ball, ignoring them until they gave up and went away.  Her favorite pastime was to lie in the spray of sunlight that streamed through the French doors in the dining room, a post from which she could survey all the comings and goings of River Road: the mail man, the UPS delivery truck, the bicyclists pumping down the corridor, the meter reader, the deer that ambled across the lawn each evening, the scurrying squirrels searching for nuts, the  robins pecking for worms and grubs. She would sit, and watch, occasionally sending up an agitated alarm, a soprano howl that let us know something unusual was in the yard.

     On an early November morning, the week before Thanksgiving, while Sissey and I were in the final, harried throes of a busy semester, my husband called in a panic and said,  “Something’s wrong with Sug.  She’s foaming at the mouth, her abdomen is rock hard, and she can barely walk. I’m taking her in to see Jimmy.” He rushed her to our vet and soon called back with the grim diagnosis-- a twisted stomach, an emergency situation.  A decision had to be made, quickly, every second critical to the outcome.  There were only two options: surgery, to try to repair the tangled and dying stomach, or euthanization.  I rapidly reviewed the situation, considered the twelve year age of Sug, the cost of the surgery, the upcoming financial demands of Thanksgiving and Christmas.

     “I don’t know, give me a minute to think,” I told him as he pressed me for an answer. “I’m thinking, I’m thinking.”



Alf-our big red alien life form!



Our sweet Auggie



    And I was thinking. Thinking about what we had gone through in a failed attempt to save our Gus. Thinking about how we had just paid a tremendous vet bill in March in a vain effort to save Auggie, our sweet, tennis ball loving, car-chasing curly coated boy, who ultimately died from a complicated autoimmune disease. Thinking about how I had impulsively purchased a big, rare, red male poodle for my husband’s fiftieth birthday in May. Thinking about the expensive laser treatment my husband had opted for when having him neutered, even though I was all for taking him to the free spay neuter clinic at the animal shelter. Thinking about the new computer Sissey wanted for Christmas and the long list of presents I needed to buy. Thinking about how I loved Sug, but she just wasn’t Gus, and bless her heart, I believed it was time to let our pretty little gal bound on to her eternal spot in the sun.

      “I can’t make this decision alone,” he replied. “Tell me what we should do. We have to decide now, Jimmy said every second is critical.”

     “I think the best thing is to put her down, “I finally said, after several moments of running through all the possible scenarios, the post-surgery complications, the pressure on Chris to manage it all by himself while we were still in South Carolina.

     “I just don’t think it’s worth the risk, to put her through surgery, at her age. She’s twelve, Chris, that’s old age for a dog, practically 84 in human years. I don’t think we should put either one of you through such an ordeal. Besides, you still have to deal with Alf’s surgery. Can you really handle two post-surgical dogs?”

        He sadly agreed with my decision and hung up to tell Jimmy the verdict.

        Several minutes passed until my cell phone started ringing. Knowing who it was, I quickly answered.



Sug recuperating



       “I told him to do it, “ Chris began.

      “Well, I know that was hard, but I think it’s for the best.” I said.



       “No, I mean, I told him to do it, to do the surgery,” he said. “I just couldn’t say it. When I talked to Jimmy, I couldn’t tell him to put her down. I just couldn’t say the words. ”





Mr. Big is ready for Christmas



      I should have known it. A natural softy by heart, I wasn’t surprised that he had not been able to say goodbye to Sug without trying to save her first. This was the man who couldn’t hurt a fly. The man who stood outside at two o’clock in the morning with the car running, trying to euthanize a dying gerbil by gently holding the rodent under the exhaust, trying to quietly put her to sleep to end her suffering; the man who buried our dead parakeet in the yard on a cold December midnight, placing her tenderly in a shoebox in a shallow grave in the garden. The man who allowed me to spend thousands of dollars when our five pound teacup poodle broke his neck, who wordlessly paid the bill so a surgeon could implant a steel rod, plates and screws into bones the size of matchsticks.  

  I should have instinctively known that he would not have been able to make the call to put Sug down.

     Sug survived the procedure, her tummy was untangled, tacked to her abdomen, and she suffered loss of only a portion of her stomach. So now,  she lies on one sofa, Alf on the other, both licking their wounds,  recovering, while Mr. Big, happy to be home for the holidays, spends his mornings running back and forth between the two, antagonizing Alf, pampering Sug.  We are back to normal, this peculiar household of rehabilitating canines and bankrupt humans, a family who has a problem separating poodles from people.  Christmas is coming, and the bills are getting fat, so please put a penny in this dog lover’s hat.