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.