Reflections - All the Creatures Were Stirring, Especially the Mouse 

Field Mouse under the Christmas Tree

On the deck after dark, the bottom loop of the Christmas tree’s garland wobbled. Branches bounced, and our three kittens dashed to the sliding glass door. A field mouse climbed through the Norway spruce’s needles and selected a sunflower seed birds had dropped from the feeder hanging above the tree. 

Gilbert stuttered. Mrr-mrr-mrah.

Rills pounced against the glass.

Ande shuffled his paws, threw a right cross, shuffled his paws, and threw another right cross—like a mini Muhammad Ali.

The field mouse climbed down to the tree skirt, a red and green plaid tablecloth I’d wrapped around the wash tub sitting on a creeper. The root ball of the three-and-a-half-foot Norway spruce nestled in pine straw mulch inside the tub. The mouse snatched another seed from the cloth. Eyeing the kittens behind the glass, the mouse munched as if eating a snack while watching animals at a zoo. 

Kitten ears stood at attention. Kitten tails whipped in synchronized swipes.

Chuckling at this nightly entertainment, I postponed taking decorations off the tree. 

Though the field mouse wouldn’t harm the spruce, the tree had a better chance to survive the winter the sooner my husband transplanted the tree.

Wednesday, clouds dumped snow. I checked Accuweather. Between the snow and forecasted rain, midday Thursday provided a several hour window of dry. Perfect. The time of day meant the field mouse would be asleep in the pine straw under the tree skirt—less risk of startling the mouse. One Christmas tree planting, Spence and had I lifted a tree from the porch table. That startled the resident mouse. It scampered out of the washtub and over my hand making my spine shimmy like a tower of jello. If I could, I would avoid the scampering-mice-feet tickle this year.

When I returned from lap swim Thursday morning, the kittens sat in a line by the sliding glass door rather than running to greet me. 

Maybe a chickadee perched on one of the spruce branches. I tiptoed behind the kittens.

Gilbert chittered. Rills pounced. Ande paced and threw a right cross.

Beady black eyes looked over kitten ears at me. The field mouse sat on its haunches and stuffed one seed after another into its cheeks. Wide awake. 

Gilbert, Rills, and the Field Mouse

Giving the mouse time to settle in for a nap, I rinsed the chlorine out of my bathing suit, slurped a bowl of homemade chicken soup, and bundled.

Boots crunching snow, I carried a tray to the deck and set it under the eaves in a trace of snow, not the four inches blanketing the rest of the deck. Standing a foot away from the tree, I reached for a sand dollar ornament near the top. Needles scratched the sun bleached skeleton loud enough for mouse ears to hear.

No mouse jumped.

I lay the sand dollar on the tray, reached for more ornaments, and kept a peripheral eye focused on the tree skirt. 

From the white pine stand, a chickadee protested—dee-dee-dee. Another chickadee buzzed over my head. Its beating wings swirling my stringy hair like wind swirled snow. Neither protesting bird nor winged assault nor threat of mouse stayed me from my duty. I untangled the glittering gold garland.

Tree branches bounced.

No mouse scampered out from the needles.

After detaching the white LED lights, I stomped stomped giving the mouse one last chance to run. I squatted and unfastened the safety pins holding the cloth around the bottom of the tree.Tugging, I freed the  the cloth exposing a mouse-nibbled hole in the center. Sheesh. I paused to let any attached mouse scamper then shook the tree skirt.

No mouse fell from the cloth.

Back in the log house, I set the tray of decorations on the kitchen table.

Before I toed out of my boots, three kittens jumped to the table and circled the tray. Chittering, they sniffed.

Uh-oh.

Kittens pawed the cloth. 

Not wanting them to break the fragile sand dollars, I lifted the cloth and tossed it onto the floor.

Plop, plop, plop. The kittens dropped from the table and pounced on the cloth. Rills dug his paw in and pulled the cloth toward him. He dug in again and pushed it away. All three sniffed. 

Maybe I hadn’t shaken the cloth enough. 

Nostrils sated on aroma of mouse pee, the kittens ambled from the cloth to the sofa and fell asleep.

I picked the cloth up. No mouse scurried away. 

I shook the cloth. No mouse fell. 

I folded the cloth. No mouse skittered across my hand.

Spence Digging a Hole for the Norway Spruce

That night, the kittens gathered at the sliding glass door. Tails twitching, they glared at the field mouse gathering seeds from branches.

If I let Spence pull the dolly with the washtub when we moved the tree to plant it between rain showers Friday, my hand would stay safe from a scurrying mouse this year.

Friday morning, Spence opened the front door and reached to the wood pile for a log.

The field mouse popped out between two logs then dove deeper into the wood pile.

Ande and Rills scurried to the door.

Spence lifted a booted foot in front of racing Rills. “No, no. You can’t come after the mousie.” He brought a log inside and closed the door. “I don’t like the mice being that close to the door.” 

I didn’t either. 

Spence sprinkled Tomcat Bait Chunx onto the log pile and waited for the rain to slow.

Under mid afternoon sprinkles, I photographed Spence pulling the creeper down the ramp, lifting the tree into his tractor bucket, and driving it to the end of the field. Angling to get his face in the photo, my boots squished the soggy soil. 

He shoveled, tamped dirt, and spread mulch. 

The field mouse ‘s face, tail, or any body part didn’t appear.

At night, the kittens still gather by the sliding glass door and stare out at deck, country dark without the Christmas tree lights. Chittering, they watch field mice scurry over the deck gathering dropped seeds. 

I chuckle and hope the field mice burrow into the deck flower pots. In case they don’t, my fingers and eyes remain on mouse alert each time I reach for a log from the porch wood pile.

Norway Spruce Planted