Goodbye Cricket

           

Well, I’m sad to report that Cricket, our green anole, has gone to the big terrarium in the sky.

In case you’ve missed the Cricket saga, this was the lizard who jumped on the hood of our truck and who inexplicably refused to hop in the grass when I offered escape. Instead he took one look in our truck two years ago and leaped inside to the delight of the kids.

I was, of course, horrified that now we had a pet that required live bugs for dinner.

Cricket survived the demise of not one, but TWO pet stores in the area (so now I had to drive 20 miles for BUGS). He also survived the best efforts of our cat at assassination, and at least two accidental falls.

He was often carted off to the bathroom for tub time and every now and then I’d hear a scream and know that he had almost jumped out – or onto Mireya. Sierra, our oldest, taught him to jump through a pony tail holder, Mireya slowly got to the point where he could crawl on her arm without a total meltdown.

This was a green anole that loved to be petted, he’d close his eyes if you rubbed his head. And although we toyed with the idea of releasing him many times, he never seemed interested in leaving. We worried about him being too much of a target in a world that wouldn’t really appreciate his poetic nature.

But when he stopped hunting crickets last week and stopped ducking from the water droplets, we knew the time was coming. We tried to make him comfortable in the sun. We petted him and he lifted his head to the touch, closing his eyes like always.

We got back from a brief trip and he was gone, his body half brown as if he was just in the middle of a final color change.

We found a box and filled it with cotton balls and tissue. We stood around a small hole where we set him and remembered all the funny stories. The time he jumped from my arm to my shirt and I shouted “He’s jumped! Where did he go?” and everybody was laughing, pointing at my shoulder where he hung on for dear life while I whirled around looking for him. Then there was the time he got tangled in Daddy’s hair. The time we snuck him into a restaurant because we wanted him to have an adventure.

What an adventure he was. Rest in Peace, Cricket.

With some drool, puppyness...

We have a new puppy.

I was reminded why it’s vital that young ones are really cute:

They aren’t house broken.

They don’t come when they are supposed to.

They think the entire world exists for them.

They cry.

After a few days you realize if they weren’t cute, you’d wrap them right back up and send them back to where ever they came from, grateful that you’d be getting a full night’s sleep again.

I’ve had many puppies in my lifetime, and every one is as different from one another as my daughters are from each other.

This rescue puppy seems completely oblivious to the fact that she’s the size of a house slipper.

She bounds over the other dogs as if she could take them out with a few well placed nips. She hogs the tiny ball we bought her, refusing to let the bigger dogs play with it after a few tosses.

She dives through every barrier as if she was a Great Dane, not a fluffy white thing with springs for legs.

The puppy is Sierra’s dog, technically, and Mireya, who at age six is still not crazy about things that jump on her, has gradually warmed up to the puppy.

“She is not cuter than me,” she told me as we watched the puppy slide into the door after a poorly executed run.

“Nope. And she isn’t as coordinated as you either.”

“I know. And I’m still cuter.”

I wasn’t sure when the “cute crown” started to seem like it was in jeopardy, but it dawned on me that it was time to be reassuring.

“Oh, you’re way cuter. Plus you hardly ever bite.”

“And Mireya knows how to use the potty,” noted Sierra helpfully.

“Thank god,” mumbled Dad.

I wasn’t sure what he was complaining about. Part of the deal of getting a new dog was that he was exempt from indoor clean up. He’s always had a weak stomach for bodily functions.

With the cuteness hierarchy firmly re-established, and some ground rules set, the puppy became a more welcome addition, insofar as Mireya was concerned. Especially when she figured out she can dress this dog in doll clothes.

That dog has no idea what she’s in for.

Behold! Art!

Recently I was trying to gain control of the artwork in our house.

Borrowing from a darn clever Pre-K teacher, (Miss Angela, where ever you are, thank you!) I managed to score a few empty pizza boxes and have been filling them with artwork. With every drawing comes a memory.

Mireya walks up to me about three years ago and proudly shows me the round circle with four stick legs, two eyes and a serious looking mouth. "Cat," she said, beaming. She then walked over to our cat who was taking in some sunshine, kneeled in front of her and thrusts the picture up to her nose. "Look," she says. "It's you!"

Life at the Ranch

I think this is a good time to let the good people at the Comal County tax office know that I will be coming in to apply for an ag exemption.

Because we have MORE BABY MICE.

I’m pretty close to losing my affection for these tiny little furry things who are way too family oriented, if you know what I mean. I figured mice in general were a short term pet commitment. I didn’t count on the generational factor.

Our mouse adventure started innocently with just two mice. Then we had the unfortunate cat encounter, which required a replacement mouse, looked a little fat.

A word of advice. If a mouse looks fat, return it to the store immediately.

We ended up with a litter of baby mice. We watched them grow and picked a favorite, then handed off the boys to the store.

About three weeks later the mouse master Sierra noticed Mousezilla was very fat.

“I think she’s pregnant, Mom!”

“No, honey,” I said, confident that we had rid ourselves of all possible papa mice. “There has to be a boy mouse for her to get pregnant and we gave all the boys away.”

“She looks pretty fat to me.”

“Clearly she’s watching too much TV. Let’s get her a gym membership.”

“Moooom!”

A week later I walk in the room having heard some squeaks. Apparently mice squeak when they are in labor, because there were the little pink wiggly things.

“I can’t believe it.” I was stunned and perplexed. Was it a miracle? Or are mice privates just tough to identify?

“More baby mice!” Sierra was overjoyed, both at the idea that there were more mice and that Mom was spectacularly wrong.

So what are we supposed to do? Send all the mice to live in convents? Do I buy a snake and just complete the circle of life? Or do I go with the flow here? We seem to have a bit of a gift for multiplying mice.

That’s it. Mice ranching. I’m not sure how long it takes to qualify for an ag exemption, but I imagine after a few years we’ll have quite a herd going. We could set up elaborate sorting cages, maybe develop a tiny branding program so we can tell everyone apart. Like with nail polish.

Then even Mireya would be part of the round up.

(this may be the only way I'm going to keep my mice from makin' bacon, so to speak)