Of Dead Men & Mice

Since I've been big lately into thinking of dead people (friends I no longer have), and since in this blog I may sometimes chat about little mice (which I find complex, stunning creatures), I thought I would maintain character and write some on the death of mice.  Actually, I'm just going to post two short emails I sent to a friend some time back:

Dear T,

I lost a little momma mouse last night, Chinchin.  She was a pretty, very bright, active little mouse.  I decided to mate with Hot Shot, my oldest mouse ever, even though she herself was a little old for pup bearing.  I knew it was dangerous.

From shortly after she became pregnant she began to struggle.  I didn't know if she should make it to delivery.  She did, but after that I didn't know if she would make it through nursing.  "One more day, little girl," I kept saying: "If you make it through seventeen days you'll all make it."  She would come out from nursing, struggle, choke, make whimpering, complaining sounds, regain her strength, and go back in.

She made it through seventeen days.  The pups continued to nurse after that, but less frequently, some not at all, and unless there was a weak one, nursing was no longer crucial.  She made it through 20.  Between 2:00 and 4:00 A.M. last night I saw the pups start to come out and eat hard food.  I had seen them nibble before, but in that 2 hour period they went from nibblers to voracious eater.  Clearly they had made it.

There was one weak one yet.  Not puny, not really distinguishable from the others, but a little behind.  Chinchin went up into her hut and nursed that little pup one last time.  And died.  Hot Shot, the papa mouse, stroked her face afterwards.

And

Dear T,

I'm just now losing the last of my super mice --actually a son of the super mice, Hot Shot, consort of Chinchin, son of Hot Stuff and BT-- but the last one.  He's lying out at the far edge of the condo, alone, waiting.  That's how mice do things.  The one dying leaves the others.  If I didn't have up a fence he would pull himself over the edge.  The healthy huddle together in a far corner.  There is no activity in this mouse condo.  That's how you know a mouse is about to die, and not merely ill; the mice know.  Dying is a somber business.  There might be a visit.  A mouse might venture up, cautiously.  He might sniff noses, the dying one slightly lifting his head.  There might be a brief groom on the top of the head.  These visits last the small part of one minute.  --Actually, this time I do think there's one male pup anxious for the old man to kick the bucket.  For a moment he ran on the wheel, then went back with the others.   Funny guys, these little mice.  It could be ten hours yet, or one minute.

I started my mouse book some weeks back.  Some parts are going very well, some are very hard.  I mean only to portray mice as a delight...the first year, before there are any deaths.  I think people will be entertained by a good story, I can't expect them to face the pain of the second year.

Feels odd to feel these years with these special mice come to an end.

                                  See you, M.

--He died as I wrote this, I didn't see it; he was trying to leave the condo.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

There is that hill in Brittany
I've never known nor ever will--
Yet know so well as thirst, as need;
Or the coming bend behind
The darkly foliaged road,
The distance misted tops of far off hills,
The flat line of disappearing sea;
Always always, anywhere, horizon,
Toward which I've turned
Yet have not reached.
Strongest in youth, not yet lost--
Longing.
In longing there is direction--
Forward.

 Bellmont ,  Poem, comment 27.  Of note, comment 75.