JACK MUDD tells the tale of the latest long-tailed temporary residents at their home
AFTER arriving back home at Buffalo Hills from a week’s break in Cape Town a fortnight ago, we opened up the house, and as usual unpacked hastily to get everything squared away, so we could relax and enjoy the rest of the sunny afternoon. After a quick walk at dusk with our two Staffies, it was time to gooi a dop and settle down in front of the TV to see what new and innovative ideas our experts from Eskom had mustered up to keep the lights on, or if we were at any moment to rush and flash up our genie.
Then we heard a feint highpitched “peeeep!” At first I thought it was some electronic “thing” in the room that needed charging or was in distress. They usually do this to you when they are about to expire. No matter, I did a quick walkabout but found nothing after checking all our fancy cells, chargers, etc. “Must be some new bird’s call that’s arrived,” I mused, and went back to ogling the silver screen.
“Peeeep!” – there it was again. “Lucy, did you hear that squeak?” I asked, looking at her sitting in her chair opposite me. I muted the TV and we both held our breath, listening. The dogs were also alert, following our lead.
“Peeeep… Peeeep!” “It’s definitely in here somewhere, that’s for sure,” Lucy confirmed. Okay, so now I’m up and searching all the gaatjies in the living room. Finally, behind the curtain in the far corner, a movement catches my eye. There on the floor is this tiniest pink “thing” with feint stripes slowly dragging itself pathetically forwards. You know, like when in the movies a ship-wrecked okie, half drowned and uitgeput and very lucky to have escaped certain death by shark attack or drowning, drags himself up the beach, gasping for air? This little blind Pinky looked just like that.
“ P e e e e p … P e e e e p ! ” (Help…Help!) he seemed to whisper. Foeitog. ‘What to do now?’ I wondered. ‘There’s not a hope in hell I can deal with this tiny laaitie – he’s just too small.’ The swiftest and humane solution would be to simply put him out of his misery and suffering… a quick whatever, then forget about it. Hey, this little chap has survived for how long? I couldn’t tell but he’d actually left his nest to find his Ma – where she is, or was, God alone knew. ‘This chappie actually needs a break, and deserves a chance at the very least,’ my conscience hailed within me.
Lucy and I have raised countless wildlife orphans over the years, but definitely not a miniature field mouse. Ja well no fine. He’s going to die soon, so if we try and don’t succeed… Nothing ventured. He’s sure to die anyway, my savvy reasoned. Into action it was then. I found a tiny box, stuffed it with shredded bog roll paper, and put him into it. Then, after some serious searching, found a plastic eye-drop bottle with a very small spout, cleaned it thoroughly and filled it with a tepid milk mixture (a recipe we used with our orphaned bokkies). Holding him gently between thumb and forefinger I administered the hapless fellow a drop (that drop alone was almost as big as his head!) – most of it just trickled ineffectively down the side of its tiny mouth.
I just hoped some got down. The next thing was to get him warm. He was literally “as cold as death” to touch. I dug out an old electric heater pad we had used with the tropical snakes years back, plugged it in and put the box on top. Hell, it still worked. Great stuff. Soon after, our little chappie was warm as toast. All we could do now is wait. We would check him in a few hours. Once again we settled down in front of the TV. There was another “peeeep” but this time right close to the couch I was sitting on. “There’s another one somewhere right underneath you!” Lucy exclaimed.
I got up, moved the Staffies and with torches both of us began to search for this other peeep. After turning the couch over and lifting it up, there was nothing. The miserable “peeep” continued. “Do you know what?” Lucy muttered with a look of disbelief on her face. “That’s coming from the inside of the couch! The damn mice have a nest in there, can you believe it. How the hell do we get in there?” “We don’t,” I said. “The only way is to cut the couch open, and no-ways am I going to do that. We will just have to wait ‘till the morning, it’s too late now. “I agree, that’s best,” Lucy concurred.
I attempted to administer a further feed to our chappie before bed, but sadly with the same depressing result. ‘Ag… he will be dead by morning, but at least we’ve tried,’ I pondered as I turned in.
Next morning at dawn I was up and almost too scared to go and see our chappie. It was a foregone conclusion that he would not have made the night, I figured. ‘But there’s always hope,’ as I approached the box. I lifted the lid with dread. Amazingly, the little bloke was alive. This time when I attempted to feed, I could see him drinking, although pathetically. Wow, there’s a thing! (Feeding this tiny curled-up thing, holding it gently between two fingers, felt like holding one of those large soft white, segmented cutworms that got dug out of the manure heap.)
I wondered in disbelief. “Lovey, look, there’s another one of ‘those’ here next to my chair,” Lucy announced casually. “Oh no, it must have got out of the couch,” I replied. On closer inspection, this sibling was even smaller and in worse shape than the first chappie. I quickly tossed it into the warm nest with its pal. Later I did the messy feed on both, still convinced they were not going to make it – but survive they did.
Soon, they were feeding every two hours. A proper milk formula was thankfully supplied by Kerry Tindall from Robberg Vet in Longships. (She had done her MSc on the Four-striped field mouse, so we were now in good very hands.) The rest, as they say, is history. By the middle of the month, our two little mice were weaned and ready for the great outdoors. They were released by April 13 and who knows, they may thrive well.
There’s one other piece to the couch saga. We decided to find out where the nest really was. Unfortunately, we had to cut a hole into the upholstery, and lo and behold. there was a huge field mouse eco-system within, and a cosy but empty nest built from soft threads nicked from our woolly carpet, nogal. That old couch had provided comfort to all and sundry, it seems, but was now beyond repair, and we had to replace it – at some expense I might add. But the satisfaction of seeing the resilience of nature was humbling, and well worth the effort.
If there’s a moral here, I’m sure something like “moenie gaan krap agter die berg nie” would be appropriate. No good deed…?
