Mighty Mouses

I remember some cartoon character from my childhood who had a running war on with some mice, and he used to rage "I hate those meeces - to pieces!" There seems to be a lot of Meece-hating coming on in these parts. Personally, I do occasionally contemplate getting a couple official barn cats - but it's all talk. I surprised a little mouse in my feed room the other day and felt badly for startling him so, if that gives you any idea how harmless I am about it all.

I was shaped early on, I suppose. When I was about 5, my mom opened the oven door a couple days after Thanksgiving to do something with her turkey roasting pan that had been left in there. There in the grease congealed in the pan were little tiny footprints, leading to the middle of the pan, where a little tiny mouse sat, clearly thinking himself in mouse heaven. My dad was in favor of gassing him, I think, but my mom is a TREMENDOUS sap about any living creature, and thought he was too cute to kill. I don't remember how it ever turned out - if the mouse was smart he took off out of there for safer environs - but that story was told so often throughout my childhood it must have affected my judgment towards our Rodentia brothers and sisters.

The farmers hereabout had no such upbringing, apparently. My daughter, the combine driver, came home and informed me that since combining season was over, she was being shifted into mousebeating. Or at least I thought that was what she said, which sounded decidedly unAmerican to me. What she actually said was mouse-baiting, which as it turns out isn't much better. It apparently involves walking the fields in search of mouse holes and stuffing bad things down in them designed to lead, I am afraid, to a frank reduction (not mere relocation) of the small rodent population.

I understand the realities of agriculture. I do. I promise. This is why I was not in favor of naming calves that were destined to be hamburgers and steaks in a few months. I mean, could you eat something you had bottle fed? And named CHUCK for pity sake?? That is sick. Funny, admittedly, but twisted. I understand that cattle are raised because I like my burgers, and that fuzzy little chicks become lovely rosemary chicken. I just don't want to be the instrument of death, thank you very much. I cheered at the movie Chicken Run.

And I likewise understand that mice eat tender little growing things, and when growing things is your livelihood, war against rodents is appropriate. But I am a closet anarchist. So I have a plan.

I am going to infiltrate the farm office in the dead of night, wearing my special night vision goggles and my black long-sleeved John Denver Homegrown Tomatoes T-shirt. Then I am going to find all these little devices for stuffing bad things into mouse holes, and I am going to, shall we say, modify them. With tasty treats, something that makes little mouse mouths water, whatever that is (some research is needed here). I figure, if they have something yummy in their tummy they will be less likely to go after crops, right? Maybe slip a little Benadryl in there too, so they eat and drop off into a nice long sleep. So everyone thinks their absence is attributable to having gone to the great mouse beyond.

I think this is a stellar plan. Way more practical than my original plan of broadcasting some sort of RUN FOR YOUR LIVES kind of message, since there is a bit of a language barrier.

What I really need to know is - will you visit me in jail!?