Seeking additional blankets--and lacking a hand-knit one from Grandma--our mouse shred a paper towel holder she had played with in the days before childbirth (when she had time for such luxuries). Realizing she required additional resources, I deposited torn tissues inside her cage, and within minutes, she had placed herself over her babies--a tissue canopy sheltering their bodies. Please do not disturb. Mommy and babies bonding.

Of course, had these creatures been loose in my home, I’d have been the first to call an exterminator--or my cat. Before the babies were born, I teased my cat that if he were good, I’d let him have one teeny one. Instead, I’ve since chased him around the backyard whenever he’s caught outdoor mice. I’ve gotten him to drop a few, and I’ve returned those to where they most likely were captured. I’m probably messing around too much with Mother Nature.

As our mouse’s babies began to grow and explore, I didn’t know what to expect. Would my husband, children, and I observe nature’s methods for time-out, consequences, or grounding? Would she know, or care, anything about self-esteem? Would she teach her babies that cats are okay when you live in glass houses? Would we know when they were old enough to reproduce, so we could intervene before 10 became 100? Would they even all survive?

They did all live, and they provided us with demonstrations on how to have fun--and how to steal food from your siblings. Eventually, we gave away the males, keeping two females. One became a sad lesson in how not to leave young children alone with a pet; that helpless mouse was squeezed to death by a neighborhood girl who didn’t realize how tight a fist she had made.
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And now, 15 months later, Mother is failing--a tumor on her neck, her breathing labored, her body swollen quite differently than in her pregnant days. She is again digging her way into the bedding, but this time to separate herself from her remaining offspring and to prepare for the end.

The life cycle continues; the next generation lives on.

As in those early days, I am marveling over Mother Nature and natural instinct. Even my husband, who early on called excitedly to check on the “kids,” now calls sadly to check on Mom. And our children have respected our mouse’s “Do Not Disturb” signs--her early one when the babies were born and the one she’s posting during her last days--better than they’ve ever observed ours.

This mouse, if she could speak, would thank us for saving her from an early (and pregnant) death by boa constrictor--where she was headed at the pet shop from which we rescued her. Yet it is us who thank her for this magnificent experience.

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