When I was a kid, I didn’t have a dollhouse.
I had a mouse house.
The concept was the same — a tiny replica of a home, filled with itty bitty furniture, occupied by a miniature family.
But instead of little humans, the inhabitants of my model were murine.
Good behavior on my part was often rewarded with a trip my favorite gift shop, called Patches, where I would pick out a new resident.
The mice were made with real fur (a troublesome fact that did not register with me as a child) and clothed in cute costumes. My eclectic rodent commune boasted a painter, a Martian, a Bo Peep, a Raggedy Ann and Andy, a princess, a grandma, a burglar, and a doctor, among others.
I would spend hours tending to it — moving the occupants around, rearranging their wee rooms. Putting eensy groceries in their eensy kitchen (my favorite was a teeny carton of eggs).
An avid animal lover since about birth, that mouse house was my pride and joy.
So when I saw the early evidence of a mouse in my own house recently, well, it didn’t really set off any alarm bells.
“We can coexist again,” I thought, noting a hole in a packet of Penzey’s paprika. “We’re old pals, no need to worry.”
I named him Winnis and went on my way, figuring he (or she) was just checking the place out in search of an easy snack, and would soon move along.
Winnis, apparently, had other plans.
He (or she) moved some roommates in and things started to get a bit rowdy.
An entire bag of vegan marshmallows went missing.
Someone knocked a vintage espresso cup off a shelf and broke it.
I came home from vacation to find a can of Hershey’s dark cocoa destroyed and more than half the counter coated in fine, brown powder.
Then one of them chewed a hole in my very expensive Chloé Myer bag.
After that, every night when I went to bed, I pictured the part in “The Nutcracker” when the Rat King comes to life and dances all over the living room while Clara sleeps.
“Just kill them,” Chad said to me as I bemoaned the damage. “They’re getting the best of you. Put some traps out and be done.”
But I couldn’t. My favorite book growing up had been “Pippa Mouse.” I watched “The Secret of NIMH” a thousand times.
Destruction or no, how could I hurt those little friends of my youth?
As it turned out, my Jack Russell, Mr. Moo, wasn’t hindered by such ethical dilemmas.
When the buggers started getting bold enough to venture out during the day, he dispatched four within a week.
I was equal parts traumatized and relieved. Chad — and Moo, of course — were thrilled. (Pretty sure I caught them high-fiving behind my back.)
Fast-forward to today, and it seems we have the house to ourselves again. There are no nibbled corners on my Cheerio’s box, and Moo has returned to playing squeaky ball rather than stalking prey.
“So, what’s the moral of this story?” Chad asked, hoping to hear he was right all along.
Which I suppose he was.
But my takeaway is something different, and the reality even harder to swallow.
One, my precious baby is a blood-thirsty murderer.
And two, mice are a lot more fun when they’re fake.
Katie Long McDowell is the managing editor and lifestyles columnist for The Dominion Post. Email kmcdowell@dominionpost.com.
