Life at Pigeon Height
Life at Pigeon Height
There is a decision to be made. A life altering, momentous decision that will affect the lives of me and my family for a pretty significant period of time. It’s a decision about mice.
…so here I am, decisions, decisions……
A friend of the wife had mice. I use the past tense, not only because I’m clever with words that way, but because she no longer has the mice. My wife has the mice and by extension I have the mice. The son of the friend, it turns out, is allergic to the mice. The mice and he are medically incompatible and the mice had to leave the place of their former abode. In a teary farewell the mice were whisked away from the place where they were, by no fault of their own, toxic. They now sit in my den, in their space age tubular warren of a cage, waiting the decision.
Stay or go? They’re cute. They’re fury. They have pink eyes. They are, for all intents and purposes, mice. On the basis of this last point alone, my decision would be to donate them to the local zoo for use as reptile food, however, I cannot. My wife is enamoured of them. My kids adore them and think that having mice in the house would be cool. The mice seem to have more going for them than meets the eye. So here I am, decisions, decisions…
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