The truth about mice

swingin' mouse pad

So of course I pick the mouse with rage issues. Once we got Dolly and Myrtle home, it was very very clear who had...issues. Myrtle wasn't delighted to be picked up and played with, but at least she didn't fling her body from your hand in attempted suicide, or squeak like she was being murdered at the slightest touch. But mice are skittish, right? Give her time, I thought. By Sunday evening though, we knew something had snapped in Dolly's tiny tiny brain.

Dollface would get on her wheel and run for literally hours. When she was done, she wouldn't bed down for the night in the cardboard tubes we had provided, instead she preferred to crouch on the cold hard wheel, never really sleeping, just staring off into the distance, eyes squinted. Up until then she would share the wheel, but never leave it. Eventually she had to venture to grab a nugget of corn or seed, and during this quick snack breaks, Myrtle ran for a turn on the wheel solo. Then all hell broke loose. Dolly sensed her beloved wheel was cheating on her, turned back quickly, and lunged at Myrtle, squeaking like a crazed banshee. She then chased her around the cage and started hopping on her and squeaking. This, my friends, is where I draw the line.

Suffice to say, Dollbaby the demented was returned and swapped out for a sweet little blonde we now call Puff (or Horchata if you're Jared). So far Puff and Myrtle have got along swimmingly and Myrt doesn't seem too terribly scarred from her times as a battered housewife.

Glam Puff Horchata Alexander enjoying a pumpkin seed

And thus ends an entire post on rodents. Who weigh an ounce a piece. Forgive me.