Playing God

WARNING: If you do not want to see enlarged pictures of baby mice, do not proceed. Seriously.



I love daylight savings time. In the autumn you gain an extra hour to fuck around in the evening, and in the spring you get a free bonus hour of daylight just when the weather starts to turn nice. All winter you've been thinking of fun interesting things you ought to be doing, and God finally says "let's see it then, tough guy." You say "sho' nuff, sir" and go outside to spend a pleasant evening in the park.

Almost. He was up to the challenge this afternoon. Through a series of unfortunate events involving a dog, Brother Cliff, a rather girlish scream and a bunch of boxes out back I became the surrogate father of three baby mice.

But by baby mice, I don't mean fluffy little munchkins nibbling on cheese and squeaking cutely. Instead imagine tiny pink hushpuppies with no eyes and several tiny blood wounds. Even so, only an asshole would let them dry in the sun. So with quick action and a little homespun tenderness, I soon had them feeling right at home:


Not quite, apparently. They paid no attention to the lettuce and I later realized that the porcelain plate lowered their body temperature too quickly, not to mention making the whole affair resemble some twisted plat du jour. Sadly, two of them soon expired. I wished I was in the park riding my bike.


It was the only flag I could find.

The third one, however, is a tough little motherfucker. Trying to nudge lettuce down his throat with a pair of tweezers just didn't feel right, and I decided to seek expert advice via teh intarnet. A few mouseclicks [ha] later I was racing to the pet food store for kitten formula, the salvation army for a heat lamp, and then to several pharmacies who didn't appear to believe me when I said the syringe was for a baby mouse. I would have rather spent that time laying in the grass at the park.



No, this mouse doesn't have a name. He has to prove to me that he's tuff enuff 2 stay alive for at least 24 more hours before I'll bestow that honor [read: become too invested]. And I'm pretty sure it's a him; baby mice apparently have a hard time shitting by themselves, so you have to prod their hindquarters with a q-tip soaked in warm water. Unformed and rudimentary, but plain to see. I could have been hanging out with hot girls in the park.



I have no idea where I get off hand-raising a baby mouse, but I believe the scaly material on his fur is normal. Also he's a bit more lively than he appears in these pictures, and I hope his eyes open soon because the effect is a bit disturbing. When I'm feeding and fawning over him it all seems exciting and fun, but then I go to dinner and separate myself from it for awhile, only to come back to find a squirmy little creature living on my dresser. Still, when all is said and done, I suppose I'm glad I never went to the park.


/not dead, just resting.