Five days ago Silas and I discovered we had a new mouse infestation. A particular bummer, since the winter of 2007 and the spring of 2008 was filled with mouseicide. The problem was so bad, well, I'm not even going into how bad it was, but I can tell you more than a handful of my boots ended up filled with bird seed and dog food, an armful of my sweaters, coats, and mittens ended up in the garbage after being used for nesting material, and more than thirty mice ended up dead or kinda-sorta-not-so-kindly escorted off the premises.

So when I decided to pack away some winter scarves on Sunday night, only to discover that someone had gnawed off half the exotic green feathers on my cherished Cirque du Soleil scarf, I hit the roof. Or maybe the roof hit me. I don't know. It's all blurry now. One minute I was packing things in a cardboard box humming a little nonsense tune and the next minute I was seeing red, my hum turning murderous as pictures of little silver mouse guillotines filled in my head. And no, I'm not overly precious about my clothing but this scarf is special. Seriously special. Not only was it made by the extraordinary designer Giselle Shepatin specifically for Cirque, but it was given to me by Silas as a gift when I finished my 40 days/40 nights in the desert in 2006. I wear it only on special occasions and not with little reverence or adoration. Half laughing, half crying, I discovered the missing half-chewed feathers in the corner, most of them demolished and then wedged into the fabric of my tennis shoes. Ok, one tennis shoe.  After a bit more investigation, the anger turned to panic, for there was evidence in the closet of more than one mouse. Needless to say, Monday found us in the mouse trap aisle at the local hardware store.

We use live traps and, call me stupid, we walk the little monsters about a quarter mile away and set them free. I know. I know. It's a ridiculous game of cat and mouse, only this cat ain't got no teeth, and certainly no spine. And on top of it, this cat is so lazy it won't get in the car and drive a few miles down the road to insure each mouse has a one-way ticket.

 Since Sunday we've caught two. But then yesterday we heard these little squeaks all day. I thought it might have been baby birds right outside our window, but no, the sound was definitely coming from the washing machine. We ignored it. Or tried to. I mean, what can you do? Could be anything, right? Then this morning I get up with the dawn to check our live traps (important to get up early so the little heathens don't starve to death in the little plastic condos) and what do I find? This little guy laying on the cold concrete floor, about two feet in front of the washing machine.

JUMPIN JESUS ON A POGO STICK! If that's not the cutest freakin' thing I have ever seen in my life. I wonder if it's alive. I picked it up. (I know. I know. At least half of you are now certain I'm going to die of the plague or at least be foaming at the mouth by 4am. If nothing else I'll contract meningitis or black lung.) And there, in my wash room in the pre-dawn light, my fate was sealed. It opened it's weensy mouth, made a little squeaky sound that was barely a whimper and put out its little hands as if beseeching. He was probably searching for a nipple, but it looked more like the mouse version of the Widow's Mite.

So I took him up to Silas, who was still in bed. "All the traps are empty, but this little guy was waiting in the middle of the floor," I said extending my hand. Silas groaned. Then rolled his eyes and groaned again. I knew what that groan meant. He can't believe he married someone who stops to pick up roadkill (I collect bones. Shut up, it's more exciting than stamps. If I was a stamp collector, would you be reading this blog? I wouldn't even be writing this blog. I'd be too busy with my magnifying glass and my clenched sphincter filing, sorting and categorizing my stamps), someone who compares and contrasts the skills of Southwestern taxidermists, and now this--someone who  not only handles but who is making little adoring squeaking sounds of her own over a bald, wriggling, disease-carrier.

I was convinced this little goober was on his way out. I mean, the squeaking we heard all day yesterday was incessant, so he'd been without food for 24 hours. The guilt snuck up my palm and into my chest. Clearly we'd captured its mother and delivered her into the neighbors yard. What to do? Drown him? Quick, easy death? Put him outside and let nature do its thing? I had to think this through very carefully and seriously. Four seconds later I was resolute. If there was a way to attempt to rehabilitate him, I'd do it. I mean, what newborn do you know who'll leave the nest blind and starving--strike out on his own? He's like a little mouse from LOST, desperate and stranded, but still trying to get rescued. Maybe he's Gilligan? I love a good against-all-odds story.

So I jumped online. Well, more like hobbled, because the goober was still in my palm so I had to type one handed. He kept nuzzling around searching for a nipple, blindly toppling one way and then another. It was hard to concentrate, much less read. But I found an article pretty quickly with feeding instructions for abandoned baby field mice. The relief I felt was immense. Not so much at the thought I might be able to help the little goober, but because other people were insane enough to do the same! It really is a bit like a mother hen raising a baby fox then having to explain her choice to the neighboring hens, to herself, and then to her adoring but groaning, eye-rolling husband. For months these guys wreaked havoc on my closets, my curtains, my couch and my car! I've lost count of how many times the Jiffy Lube guy has come into the waiting room with my Toyota's air filter in his hand, mice nest embedded..."You're gonna need a new air filter. You got a lotta mice where you live, mam? (Jiffy Lube guy is completely innocent and has no idea how close he's come to Smack-ville).  You know what they say: Insanity loves company!

I thought for a moment we might be destined to flush him down the toilet, as the article said he'd need some kitten milk, obtained from a pet store or a lactating cat. No pet stores in Taos and no cats either. Too many coyotes. But on a determined whim, I called our vet when they opened this morning and sure enough, bingo! Silas was on his way out the door to score me a can of milk and a 1cc medicine dropper (the man loves me, I tell ya) when we heard more squeaking from the washing machine. TRIPLETS! Goober has a sister and a brother. I held them all in the palm of my hand, considering my insanity. I wrestled and fought with at least thirty mice last year, in an attempt to rid my closets and corners of them. I picked up the gauntlet again last Saturday, sputtering curses at the little home-and-car-and-wardrobe wreckers. And now I held three fur-less, sightless, orphans in my hand, hoping beyond hope that they'd live. Could I be any more crazy? I flashed to the day in seventh grade Mrs. Rickler taught irony as a literary device.

A smile crept across my face. I looked up at Silas, beaming. "They may not make it and if they do I have no idea what I'll do with them. But right now, this very moment, you know what this means?"

He just blinks at me. He's thinking about the legalities of taking a second wife while the first one remains insanely alive but hidden somewhere in the Jane Eyre attic.

"I'm Mother Goose! And I'm shacking up with three blind mice!!"

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By the way, they're quite the troopers. They've eaten three times since ten this morning and have slept all day. I think they're resting their little vocal cords from all the drama-chorus from yesterday.