Of mice and Masai

Natural History, May, 2003 by Richard Milner

After several pairs of house mice determined that my Manhattan flat was a suitable place to raise their families, they gleefully moved in. Rather than scurry furtively along baseboards or hide out until the dead of night, they chased one another in afternoon courtship on my kitchen floor, then brazenly danced up to the table to forage for crumbs. I thought of hantavirus and the Black Plague, yet my first inclinations were kindly: I bought "humane" box traps to capture and relocate my unwanted guests. The next day I found that the mice had taken my bait but had managed not to get humanely caught.

Inevitably, though, the squeals and pitter-patter of the burgeoning rodent families increased, and I gave in. Reluctantly, I purchased some deadly spring traps "baited" with yellow bits of perforated plastic. None of my little roommates fell for the faux Swiss cheese; the mice went on dancing, dancing, dancing....

Next I bought glue traps, resolving to conk the critters as soon as they were caught. (A slow death in a glue trap, I earnestly believe, should disturb any thinking, feeling person.) I thought of Tom and Jerry, Mickey Mouse, Stuart Litde, and Robert Burns's line about "the best laid schemes o' mice and men." Guiltily, I set out the dreadful glue traps, along with a few spring traps for good measure, and went to bed.

Later that night I was awakened by a knock on the door. Two Masai gentlemen stood at my threshold, dressed in their traditional robes.

"Jambo," said one. "Hello. We beg your pardon for the intrusion, sir, but we understand that you are killing animals here."

"What business is that of yours?" I bristled. "You live a world away."

"Yes, sir, but we have come on an urgent mission, to show you how to live with your mice."

"First of all, they're not my mice," I replied testily. "I did not invite them. They disturb my sleep, they invade my space, they even defecate near my food. Disgusting. If I don't stop them, they will continue to propagate, carry in fleas and disease, and displace me from my home."

"Rafiki," said the other one. "We come as friends. Your people have been visiting Africa for years, teaching us that we must live with our wild animals, that killing them is not always the correct answer.

"Now we are returning the favor. If you are bothered by squeaks and footfalls in the night, remember that my family must listen to hungry lions roaring nearby at midnight. And believe me, sir, you don't know what it is to have your food soiled until an elephant has relieved himself on your vegetable garden."

Suddenly, he pulled a small video camera from the wide pocket of his robe.

"Do you mind, sir, if I place a bit of cheese on the counter, so I can try to get a sequence of your mice? Most folks back home have never seen the New York City rodents, which are world famous, so I'm making a documentary."

"Look, Otwani," said the other excitedly, pointing to the window. "It's a rock dove, what the locals call a pigeon, just there on that ledge."

The two of them rushed to the window. "My gosh," one shrieked, "I don't believe it--squirrels!" And with that, both ran out of the place, slamming the door behind them. WHAM!

I woke up. One of the traps had sprung.

Richard Milner is an associate in anthropology at the American Museum of Natural History and a contributing editor of this magazine.