Farewell to Squeeks

And so, farewell to Squeeks, a deer mouse that I raised from a three-week-old baby. About six years ago I found her and four of her siblings wandering in the hall, squeaking and bumping into the walls. They had been born in a closet in Jim’s shaving kit. The enterprising mother had torn all the cotton off the Q-tips to make her nest, and then abandoned her offspring before their eyes were open. (Or had she been eaten by one of my two cats?)

I fed all five mice on rice milk from an eyedropper, but though I wrapped them in tissue, they were soon marinated in rice milk. Their fur wouldn't fluff up again. They shivered and died one by one. The backyard was littered with small graves. But one seemed determined to live. I put her in a sock and slept with her over my heart and she lived through the night. Jim suggested that I switch to cream cheese, which I fed her on a hairpin. It was a lot easier once she opened her eyes and could see what I was trying to do. (I was always careful to wash my hands both before and after handling the mice. Your germs can make them sick and a certain percent of the deer mouse population carries haunta virus which can be fatal to humans.)

She had to be fed every four hours, so when I was going to be gone a long time, I took her with me inside a small, round basket with a lid that I toted around in the bottom of my flowered bag. And her cream cheese. Sometimes I even carried her in a small pocket in the front of my denim jumper. I took her with me to a concert, to an all-day writing conference, and up in the mountains. I let her wander in the grass, but always collected her again. Someone told me that once mice are used to humans, they lose their instincts and can’t fend for themselves anymore.

A year later, when I was house sitting, I forgot to secure the lid of the top of her cage. It was open for three days. When I discovered what I had done, I was dismayed, sure she was long gone. But no. Now there were two mice! A handsome male had moved in with her. Squeeks was in love. She’d sit beside him in the “tree,” look at him, then look at me, all moony eyed. I laughed and said, “Okay. He seems nice. You can keep him.” I called him Benjamin. They had two litters before he split. After he’d done his duty, he spent a lot of time on top of the water bottle wondering when the lid would open again. I had to let him go. Squeeks didn’t seem to miss him. She had a full nest. When they were old enough, I released the young ones down by the river, but kept her daughter Heidi so Squeeks wouldn’t be alone. For five years Squeeks and Heidi lived in an aquarium on top of my bookcase.

Heidi is shy and rarely comes out in the daytime--I think she prefers to stay close to the nest--but Squeeks was a little escape artist right from the beginning. At first I kept her in a hamster cage with bars a quarter of an inch apart. When I wasn’t looking, she slipped through, but I kept the cage in a dresser drawer, so no harm done. I covered the whole thing with fine-mesh wire, and then watched in amazement as she worked her way through the folds of screen at the corner and got out. Mice have very few bones; they can flatten themselves and squeeze through a crack like Houdini.

Squeeks escaped to the floor twice, but each time I found her. (With the help of the cat.) The first time she was hiding in one of my bags in the closet. The second time I discovered her under the dresser. She had retreated to a corner where there was a hole in the adobe. I stretched out my hand, called her, and she came back to me. Would her life have been better if she had slipped through the crack? Sometimes I felt bad that she had never known the world of plants; when I introduced a plant into the aquarium, she and Heidi ate it.

My goof this time was to open the wire lid at night when I thought Squeeks was in the nest. Mice are nocturnal. She must have been close to the top on the “tree” but I didn't see her. I took out her wheel and oiled the hinges because it was beginning to clatter. Then I opened the lid and dropped the wheel back. Even though she’s a senior senior, Squeeks has always been fierce in the defense of her territory. When she was full grown, she started nipping my finger to let me know she didn’t want to be picked up anymore. Then she would rush at my hand and nip me if I reached into the aquarium. I had to respect that—or wear gloves. Last night I wasn't wearing gloves. Just a moment of carelessness was all it took.

A few minutes later I saw Squeeks disappear behind my desk where I keep art supplies, poster board and watercolor paper. It's impossible to get a mouse out of there. I would have to wait. A couple of hours later--3 a.m.--the cat spotted Squeeks under my bed. Squeeks was running toward me on her toes, her back hunched like an old lady, trotting as fast as she could. Did she slip behind my guitar case and hide, or find a hole between the wall and the floor? I’ll never know. That was the last I saw of her. I hope I don't find her body on the bathroom rug, partly eaten by the cat. It's a dangerous world out there, but she had an adventurous spirit. Long after Heidi had eaten her dinner, run on the wheel and returned to her nest in the corner of the aquarium, Squeeks would still be running, running, running on the wheel. She had so much energy I could have powered the house lights and given some back to the grid. Was she in training for the Great Escape?


When Squeeks disappeared, I moved Heidi into another container and left the aquarium open on the floor at the foot of my bed, hoping my runaway would come back to the nest of her own accord. But in the morning, the nest was still empty.

Maybe Squeeks has been waiting for her chance, saying, "If I ever see a hole in the wall again, I'll go down it.”
I told myself I was protecting her, but really, I was holding her prisoner. For six years! (The normal life span for a deer mouse is a year. She’s probably the oldest mouse on the planet.)

Well, now she's off on her great adventure. In a way, I'm glad for her. The truth is, a wild mouse is always wild. The rest of her life will be short but exciting. I hope she gets outdoors to experience . . . Shucks! It's snowing again. I wish she had escaped in the summer. She'd have a better chance.

However it comes down, at last she’s free. I'm grateful to have known her, and all the mice that have followed in her wake. I’ve learned so much from her—mainly how mice have feelings a lot like ours. Squeeks was afraid of thunder, but that was the only thing. When I forgot to refill her water bottle, she scolded me with a long, searching look. And one evening she listened, transfixed for ten minutes, to the best of Bach. I will miss her, but I'm sure that many of the mice I catch in my live traps are her relations. So in a way, all the mice in the house are mine. God bless that little mouse who was born and lived out her long life here with me. Gratitude and love.

The Evil Owl

I saw the Great Horned Owl again at dusk as I was standing near the river. It swooped in a half circle and landed on a branch at the top of a cottonwood tree. All I saw was the edge of one huge, dark wing in silhouette, but what else could it be? Then it said, “Hoo hoooo ooooo oooo . . .” as if to remind me that I was planning to write about it.
According to "A Field Guide To Western Birds," it’s called the cat owl and is the only owl with ear tufts. It has a resonant series of three to eight hoots. Males hoot four or five times, so maybe it was a male. Females hoot six to eight times in a lower pitch.
These birds of prey like streamsides, deserts, cliffs and canyons, which we have in abundance, and use abandoned nests or make their homes in cliffs, trees, or even on the ground. I found an excellent drawing of the Great Horned Owl in Mother’s old edition of "Birds of America," a large, illustrated volume that Dad gave her for her 26th birthday in June of 1942. I wish I could use this drawing on my blog, but where would I get permission? The artist has taken great care to portray the owl with dignity and grace. Its cat-like yellow eyes are framed on both sides by half circles of russet plumage, and its breast is a cascade of horizontal brown and white bars. (The owl pictured is from Owl TV, with permission of the producer.)

In "Birds of America," George Gladden says this owl was called “Tiger of the Air” because this “big bird is courageous, powerful and bloodthirsty.”
Bloodthirsty? They have to eat, too, don’t they?

“That he is highly destructive must also be conceded, for it has been demonstrated beyond question of a doubt not only that he is bold, persistent and generally successful in his raids upon domestic poultry of all kinds, but that he is highly skillful and deadly in his pursuit of game birds, song birds, rabbits and squirrels,” says George.
He goes on, “The tiger comparison applies well to the Owl’s manner of hunting, for the sweep of his great wings in the silent air is as noiseless as the tread of the big cat’s padded feet upon the soft earth. Through the woods and over the meadows he glides silently as a shadow . . . To the poultry-farmer this Owl is a veritable terror . . . one instance is recorded of the loss by a farmer of fifty-nine young Guinea-fowl, taken in a single autumn by the same Owl.”
George also mentions the “oot-too-hoo, hoo-hoo” and compares the rhythm of it to a locomotive whistle at a crossing. “Usually the cry, like that of most Owls and of the night-birds generally, has an uncanny and weird significance, in which are blended distinct suggestions of threat, defiance, and scorn, as befits the fearless and savage nature of this veritable ‘tiger of the air.’”
Oh come on, George. Significance? Like a Rorschach test? I doubt that the owl has much feeling for human beings beyond a healthy fear of being shot. Though it doesn’t sound as if the farmer was able to pull that one off. Dare I suggest a pen topped with wire? As for the owl’s “savage nature,” I suspect that the Guinea-fowls the owl didn’t nail were beheaded, plucked and roasted and ended up on the plate of some bloodthirsty savage. I’ll bet they were tasty, too.

Nowadays, when so few of us keep chickens, the owl’s distinctive cry is a novelty. Or it can be chilling. When I was losing ground with a strange illness a few years ago, I shuddered when I heard the owl outside my window. But my daughter said, “Nonsense! Tell it to go hoot hoo somewhere else.”
I have probable cause to bear the owl a grudge. Molly, my tortoise shell cat, used to slip outside at dusk to hunt. I let her go because she’s smart and watchful and usually stays close to the house. We have coyotes around, so I keep a ladder leaning up against the wall and sometimes find Molly up on the roof. The flapping wings of the Great Horned Owl make no sound; it might have swooped down and caught her unaware. The deep, infected puncture wound in the side of her neck cost me $123 in vet bills. I don’t resent the owl, but now I keep Molly in at night.

In “Birds . . .” Doctor A.K. Fisher reports: “The large handsome Great Horned Owl is found throughout the United States everywhere suitable timber exists for its habitation. It is a voracious bird, and its capacity for good or evil is very great.”
Time out! We need a second opinion here. Evil is a human concept, not one that exists in nature. All of nature is innocent. But wait a minute! Aren’t we part of nature, too?
“Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows!” said a once popular radio show. A relative once remarked that volcanoes are evil. And some of my friends consider jet trails evil. And many might justifiably argue that Hitler was evil.

Webster’s dictionary defines evil as “immorally wrong or bad.” But nature knows no morals. Nature is all and only about balance. Another Webster definition of evil is: “The force in nature that governs and gives rise to wickedness and sin.” On many a volcanic island, the God’s were invoked for protection every time the volcano began to shoot fire. The naives thought it was because they had been bad. Prayers were an understandable attempt to gain control over wild nature.
Back to “Birds . . .” Doctor Fisher concedes that, “If the more thickly settled districts where poultry is extensively raised could be passed by and the bird considered only as it appears in the great West, it would earn a secure place among the beneficial species, for it is an important ally of the ranchman infighting the hordes of ground squirrels and other rodents which infest his fields and ranges . . . Undoubtedly rabbits are its favorite food.” (Note: the “ground squirrels” – i.e. prairie dogs—and rodents don’t just inhabit the field—they “infest” it.)
He examines the stomach content of a Great Horned Owls and finds “three species of rabbits, cotton rat, two species of pouched gophers, two species of wood rats, chipmunk, two species of grasshopper mice, Harris ground squirrel, musk rats, fox squirrels, five species of meadow mice, one short-tailed shrew, the house mouse, common rat, black bat, red-backed mouse, flying squirrel, shrew and kangaroo rat.” (Not all one meal, I assume.) It also eats scorpions, crawfish, grasshoppers, beetles and fish. He rightly concludes that, “The Great Horned Owl does a vast amount of good, and, if farmers would shut up their chickens at night instead of allowing them to roost in trees and other exposed places, the principal damage done by the bird would be prevented.”

In other words, if the Great Horned Owl ceased his evil ways and became “beneficial”, i.e. man’s ally, it would be considered a force for good. But if it competes with us for resources or gets in our way, it’s evil.
Although the Great Horned Owl’s evening “Hoooo hooooo” sometimes gives me chills, I’m glad I live in the “great West” where many diverse forms of life strive to keep each other in balance. By watching how they do it, maybe one day I can borrow a page from the book of nature and learn how to keep my own life in balance.