I can accept that there are Scrooges with their “Bah, humbug” at this time of year, but whoever did this is a Christmas sadist. I can’t believe my eyes. I’m standing in front of a whole tree of them, and this isn’t the only store where I’ve seen them. Trying to look cute in their pretty sweaters and knitted scarves, their little rounded ears covered in plaid. But they don’t fool me. They are mice!. How could anyone think they should be elevated to ornaments for the holiday season!
These are the creatures that I hear scuttling in the walls of my house. These are the things with the long, skinny tails that come in the night to my kitchen countertops and leave me small but disgusting presents. These are the annoying intruders who take the bait but manage to escape the snap of the metal guillotine. And they never walk into one of those little plastic box traps. Or if they do, they eat the bait and walk out again.
It’s around this time of year when I first hear them. I’m reading in bed and I hear that familiar scratching and scampering. I try to calm myself by repeating over and over, “They can’t get in, they can’t get me.” They can’t come through the wall, even though it sounds as though they will burst through any second. There can be only one, two at most, even though it sounds like 20 of them.
Then I try to calm down by picturing them as little Angelinas, just coming in to warm up from the cold. Angelina is a kind little mouse of children’s literature, always doing nice things for people. In “Angelina’s Christmas” she has her family bring presents and a tree to a lonely old “man” in town. She looks so cute in her blue, fur-trimmed coat and her pink scarf and matching hat with the tassel on it. Or maybe it’s Lilly in there, strolling proudly with her purple plastic purse. Or Despereaux battling forces of evil to save Princess Pea. But no, these creatures in my walls are not brave literary protagonists of the order Rodentia—these are dirty, naked mice with little gnawing teeth and claws on their feet.
I strive to be grateful to mice for all the help they are giving to science. I’m sure they’d rather be doing something else with their lives than trying to get out of mazes all day, but they do it so scientists can learn something. They tolerate leaving their friends to go with the other group, so there can be a control for the experiment. They sacrifice themselves by eating something to see if it’s safe. But in truth, I’m never going to trust a product just because a mouse says I can.
My friend C is much more kindly disposed to the rodents than I am—or at least I always thought so. She waits until she has several mice friends in her two-story Critter Trail cage, complete with a running wheel, before she drives them to their new home on a rocky hillside. She’s a smart woman so she knows it’s illegal to trap and transport wildlife, but she figures those mice will be back in her house before long, so the “illegal transport” doesn’t count. She recently confessed to me that it’s not that she likes mice, it’s that disposing of dead ones does her in.
The poet Robert Burns thought enough of mice to put them on the same plane as us, saying the “best laid plans of mice and men” often go awry. With all due respect to Robert, I don’t have any great plans at this particular moment, but when I do, I should hope they’ll be more important than those of a mouse.
So, standing here in front of this tree adorned solely with mice decked out in handmade finery, I’m baffled. Their fur is a pristine white, rather than the dull grey color it really is, and they aren’t showing their dangerous little teeth. They are holding their own amidst trees of shiny musical instruments, angels, snowflakes, Santas, dancing sugarplum fairies, and so many more. They seem like such imposters. Is this glorification of mice part of the magic of Christmas or is it part of the rampant consumerism and gimmickry overtaking the holiday?
What will it be next year? A tree of slugs with tiny reindeer bells on their antennae and glistening trails of slime? At least at that I could have the sadistic pleasure of imagining dunking them in my glass of holiday beer.
