remembering….

Today is a day we think back and remember where we were and what we were doing during that tragic event which caused our nation to turn a corner–some say for good and others say for bad. Some others say for middle.

Honestly, I get annoyed. Not at the tragic event but with all the melancholy FB shit. Remembering on the internet seems a wee superficial–

SO this post is not about THAT remembering. It is about remembering mice. WHAT?? you say. yes MICE I say. I know I know–if I am not going to speak about todays remembering then why don’t I move on to NY fashion week or something more entertaining. I will tell you why–today, during W’s and my weekly Sunday clean (super annoying) we found a plethora of mouse turds.

W got in all a tizzy and has declared war on the mouse (turds). I was more– meh, and got down to detoxing the mouse turd areas. As W started his list of mouse-killing agents and various weaponry I sort of looked up from my bleach scrubbing and out flew a tumble of mouse advice.

So mouse advice, meh about mice, immediate detox–where does this stuff come from?? This week you will know the answer. You will know all (most) of my rodent stories. You will know how someone has no fear of mice but will spend 3 hours cringing, disinfecting and scrubbing at the sight of one wee brown turd. You will know….and its starts with this story:

My first REAL pet was a rat (I know not a mouse but still a rodent). His name was Squeek and I got him at christmas. There is a pretty adorable picture of Squeek and I in front of our christmas tree. I have a super big grin and I must have been at least 4 because I had a very 80s fashionable mullet (I was a no-hair-until-4 child). Squeek was staring out of his cage–one of those plastic ones with all the multi-colored tubes and houses. Super cool. This was a big moment for me.

Squeek and I bonded very quickly–or thats how I remember it. I would walk around with squeek all day. He would crawl up my shirt and sit on my shoulder freaking out my grandmother in particular. I loved squeek, he loved me.

My brother also got a pet rat that year. I don’t really remember if he was as close with his rat as I was with mine. However, we would often play together, with our rats. One game in particular was super fun. We got into a sleeping bag on our parents bed and either let our rats go and chased them in the bag or just wrestled around with them–its a little hazy, you will see why.

My parents bed was beautiful. My Dad made it and I remember thinking it was dark and modern. I also remember it was super high; higher than any other bed I had seen that wasn’t a bunk bed.

So my brother and I would wrestle, with our rats, on my parents super high bed. Yes, one fateful day it happened. We rolled off the bed. I think my brother’s rat survived. Squeek did not. Squeek died–I hope it wasn’t bad, bloody, or painful. I don’t remember it–I remember playing and falling but nothing after. It was that bad.

Maybe my Mom knows…

This is the first of many many many rodent experiences.

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2 thoughts on “remembering….

  1. Susan says:

    good one–the bed was that high because–from pre-internet research, i.e. encyclopedias–fleas jump 26 inches, so our bed had to be 27 inches high (or they jump 13 inches and the bed had to be more than twice as high in case of super fleas, I can’t remember). It was a cool, sleigh-type bed your Dad built out of 2×4’s and plywood shortly after we moved into a flea infested, but otherwise great house on Melody Road just outside of Corvallis. After several days of trying to eradicate the fleas and failing, I became hysterical and said I needed at least one place that was flea-safe so we researched and designed and your Dad built the bed. Each night we pealed off our clothes and brushed off any dark specks before leaping into the bed–flea-free. It worked, winter came on and all the fleas froze or packed their bags to winter in Florida.

    Squeek did not suffer. I heard the thump from downstairs and rushed up to a tangled muddle of sleeping bags and critters. Squeek was on the bottom; internal hemoraging and instant brain death with no blood or other obvious yuckyness, just dead as a doornail. Squeek was lead character in that most important of childhood rituals: the first pet funeral. Just don’t revisit the popsicle dust mop guinea pig debacle, OK?

  2. Susan says:

    or the rats in the chicken feed

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