Conversation with a Deermouse

by

Pepper L. Bauer

Glancing at the clock ticking loudly on the kitchen wall, I rubbed my burning eyes. "Ugh, it's really late," I muttered, "I need to get to bed." The papers on the table in front of me swam in my blurry vision. At this point, my progress was so slow it stopped.

I stood up stiffly and stretched. Maybe if I moved around a little bit, my brain would come back to life. By now, coffee wasn't working anymore to keep me awake; it just made me have to visit the bathroom. "At least running back and forth to the 'john' doesn't let me doze off," I thought as I swung my arms in big circles to get the circulation going.

My attention focused on the half-finished story lying on the table mocking me. It was due tomorrow. I groaned. My muse had deserted me.

Suddenly, I heard something rattling on the stove. Slowly I turned, then stood very still, and watched. In no time, a little, furry, pink nose poked around the burner and twitched as it sniffed the air, delicate whiskers vibrating. Next, shiny black eyes appeared, then oversized ears. It was a deermouse.

The mouse spotted me staring at it, and froze. Our eyes locked. It felt like we stared at one another forever, but it really was only for a few seconds. Then, it surprised me. I thought the little rodent would scurry off as soon as it realized I couldn't catch it, but instead it came all the way out of hiding, sat daintily down on its haunches, and deliberately wrapped its hairless tail around teensy light gray feet.

The deermouse cleared its throat with a soft squeak. "Yo," it said.

Mouth hanging wide open, I stared at the mouse in disbelief. I must be hallucinating from sleep deprivation. That critter didn't really speak.

"Yo," the creature repeated, this time a little louder. "What's the matter, cat got your tongue?" It laughed hysterically at its own joke, its sleek gray-brown sides shaking as raspy squeals emanated from its muzzle. It raised a diminutive paw to its face and wiped a microscopic tear away. "Sorry," it said hiccuping. "I couldn't resist."

"By the way," the mouse continued, "Speaking of cats, could you do something about your friend there?" He pointed to the floor where my cat Yoda crouched, butt wiggling and tail snapping back and forth like a manic bullwhip.

I scooped up the cat, carried her hissing and shaking into another room, and closed her in, where she promptly began yowling and beating on the door. She was not a happy camper.

I returned to the kitchen, where the deermouse waited patiently for me on the stove. "Thanks," it said. I squatted down to its level. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" I asked hesitantly, still not sure he wasn't part of a dream. "Well, a cracker would be nice," it answered, muzzle quivering. "Ritz, if you have them. They're my favorite."

I reached into the cabinet, pulled out a Tupperware container containing Ritz crackers, and took one out. As I handed the cracker to the deermouse, I noticed how petite its fingers were as it held the Ritz firmly in its paws. Small teeth clicked as it nibbled on the treat.

I popped the lid back on the container, and continued the conversation. "Do you have a name?" I asked. It cocked its head and looked at me, cracker crumbs clinging to its whiskers. "Meeska," he mumbled with a full mouth.

I sat back down at the table and watched while Meeska finished his treat and groomed his fuzzy face. He licked his paws, then wiped them over his face, smoothing his whiskers, until all remnants of the cracker disappeared. "That was great," he said with a satisfied sigh.

We stared at each other in silence for a few seconds. Finally Meeska spoke. "Can I ask you something personal?" "O.K.," I said skeptically.

Meeska gazed intently into my face. "When you catch mice in that big box of yours, do you kill us? I need to know because some of my friends and family have disappeared that way."

I looked over at the "Tin Cat" on the floor next to the floorboard and smiled. "No, I didn't kill your friends. I take them out into a field and let them go." Meeska looked at me quizzically. "Why?" He said.

I stood up and walked over to the stove. Leaning over to see Meeska better, I continued. "Because mice are supposed to live outside. It's not good for them or humans if they inhabit houses."

Meeska looked up at me. "But I was born here, in your Christmas bow box, and raised in the walls and basement of this house. I've never been outside. Some of the elders talk about fields and seeds, but to the younger mice, those are just bedtime stories. Why don't you want us in here with you?"

I had to think; how could I put this politely? Maybe I should just be honest. "Because you chew up things you shouldn't, such as wires, and our belongings, for your nests. You're very destructive, whether you mean to be or not. Also, I'm not sure how to say this, but you go to the bathroom wherever you feel like it. It's disgusting and dirty."

Meeska looked thoughtful.

"I hope I didn't hurt your feelings," I said, "but you asked."

"That's O.K.," he answered. "It's food for thought. We didn't realize those things bother you."

Meeska sat still a minute, then his face brightened. "Onto a different subject. What are you doing?" He asked. "Usually I have the run of the kitchen this time of night; well, when the cat's not around anyway. You never stay up this late."

I sighed and looked over at the papers on the table. "I'm way behind on an article I have due, and my brain is fried. I just can't think anymore. I'm sunk."

Meeska stood up on his hind legs. "Take me over to the table," he said. "Maybe I can help."

I laughed. "You, help? You're just a mouse. You can't even read. How are you going to help me write and edit an article?"

Meeska glared at me. "What makes you so certain I can't read? He growled. Have you ever heard the old adage about never assuming? If you assume, you know what it makes out of you and me."

I frowned. "Nobody likes a smart-aleck, especially a mouse. But, I get your point. Hop on my hand and I'll take you over to the table."

Meeska's toenails pricked my skin and tickled as he settled down in my palm. He felt warm, his furry sides moving in a slow rhythm as he breathed. I carried him over to the table, and he clung to one of my fingers like a gymnast before he dropping off onto my papers.

Hunching over my work, he seemed to read rather quickly. "This sentence is in the passive tense," he announced, placing his paw on the page, "makes it hard to understand." I looked over his shoulder. Darn, he was right.

Meeska continued. "Are you sure you want to use this phrase," he pointed to the next sentence. "It's a cliche."

The next hour went rather quickly. Meeska was all over the place, correcting, and suggesting, his tiny face intense in its concentration. In no time, we were almost done. It became harder and harder to keep my eyes open.

I lay my head down on the table. I could see a blurry Meeska scurrying around just inches from my face, but I was too exhausted to stay awake. He said something to me about finishing; I think he said goodnight. Then, I plummeted down the shaft into dreamland.

The next thing I knew, there were warm hands on my shoulder, shaking me awake. I looked up to see my husband Don's concerned face peering down at me. "Did you stay up all night? He asked. I felt Yoda rubbing on my leg.

I sat up and stretched. My neck felt stiff and my head ached. I thought if I moved too quickly, my vertebrae would break, so I moved very slowly.

Groggy, I looked down at my article neatly stacked in front of me. It looked complete. I shook my head to clear it. "I had the weirdest dream," I said to Don as he started the coffee. "I dreamed a deermouse came out and talked to me, and helped me finish my story."

Don laughed. "Maybe that's why I found Yoda locked in the other room." He noticed the look on my face. "I'm just joking; you were dreaming," he comforted. "Next time, start your article sooner, so you don't have to stay up until all hours."

"I know; you're right. I need to get more sleep," I moaned and started to lower my head.

Suddenly, I noticed something brown on top of my article; right where I was about to lay my head. I stopped and examined it closer. "What is that?" I thought.

All of a sudden, the light dawned. Ew, it's a mouse dropping, with words scribbled next to it in the margin. I squinted at the wobbly, fine print, and could just barely make it out. When I did, I had to chuckle. Crude little letters formed the message: OOPS, SORRY!