Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover's Soul (32 page)

I’ve learned publicity is a double-edged sword. My babies and I were once on the cover of
Life
magazine. I could only conclude that I was their selection for 1989 Mother of the Year. The babies and I looked smashing. I was glad to have a family picture before they all took off for new homes. If only the puppies’ father, Tug, had been with us.

Just when I was riding high, out of the blue and with absolutely no provocation, the July 1989 issue of
The
Washingtonian
magazine came out with their “Best & Worst” list. Guess whose picture was on the cover? Mine! Guess which I was . . . best or worst? Worst. The President advised me to “shake it off,” ignore it, and not let it get my goat.

It reminded him of the time that Dick Schaap (a sportswriter for
New York
magazine) wrote an article entitled “The Ten Most Overrated Men in N.Y.C.” He told me that as the U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations, his name headed the list. George invited the other nine men, the nervous author and several ambassadors to a reception honoring “The Overrated.” It was a great party.

The newspapers and the Bushes had lots of fun with
The Washingtonian
article. George immediately came to my defense. Bar was a little quieter. After what she had whispered to me that first night, I guess she felt this was one battle she should stay out of. The editors of
The
Washingtonian
even apologized and sent me some marvelous dog biscuits. George accepted their apology. He wrote the editor of the guilty magazine: “Dear Jack: Not to worry! Millie, you see, likes publicity. She is hoping to parlay this into a Lassie-like Hollywood career. Seriously, no hurt feelings; but you are sure nice to write. Arf, arf for the dog biscuits—Sincerely, George Bush.” Easy for the President to accept the apology. I did not.

It was bad enough to have my face on the cover, beside which they had written, “Our Pick as the Ugliest Dog: Millie, the White House Mutt,” but the picture they had inside was taken the very afternoon of my delivery. Show me one woman who could pass that test, lying on her side absolutely “booney wild” (family expression for undressed) on the day she delivered six babies! I also objected to the word “mutt.” I am a blueblood through and through.

After
The Washingtonian
attack we got lots of letters. Many came to my defense. There were letters to the editor, and many letters sent directly to the White House. I guess the most pleasing message of all came directly from the office of Senator Bob Dole, who personally brought the following press release to the White House:

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:

LEADER:
WASHINGTONIAN
ATTACK ON FIRST DOG MILLIE:
AN “ARF” FRONT TO DOGS EVERYWHERE

WASHINGTON—CALLING IT AN “ARF” FRONT TO DOGS EVERYWHERE, LEADER, FIRST K-9 ASSISTANT TO SENATE REPUBLICAN LEADER BOB DOLE (R-KS) SAID TODAY THAT
THE WASHINGTONIAN
MAGAZINE WAS BARKING UP THE WRONG FIRE HYDRANT WHEN IT PICKED FIRST DOG MILLIE AS WASHINGTON’S UGLIEST DOG IN ITS CURRENT “BEST & WORST” LIST.

“I TALKED WITH MILLIE ABOUT THIS TODAY,” LEADER SAID, “AND ADVISED HER TO START USING
THE WASHINGTONIAN
TO PAPER-TRAIN HER PUPPIES.”

LEADER ANNOUNCED HE’S FORMING A NEW ORGANIZATION CALLED P.A.W.S.—WHICH STANDS FOR POOCHES AGAINST WASHINGTON SMEARS.

“WHATEVER HAPPENED TO ALL THIS ‘MAN’S BEST FRIEND’ STUFF I’VE BEEN HEARING ALL THESE YEARS? IF THE EDITORS OF
THE WASHINGTONIAN
KEEP UP THESE DOGMATIC ATTACKS, THEY HAD BETTER WATCH THEIR STEP— LITERALLY WATCH THEIR STEP,” LEADER SAID.

“AS FIRST DOG, MILLIE HAS SET A GREAT EXAMPLE FOR MILLIONS OF AMERICAN DOGS. SHE IS RAISING A FAMILY, DOESN’T STRAY FROM THE YARD, AND DOES HER BEST TO KEEP HER MASTER IN LINE. IT’S JUST NOT RIGHT FOR HER TO BE HOUNDED LIKE THIS.

“LET’S MAKE NO BONES ABOUT IT. DOGS EVERYWHERE ARE WHINING ABOUT THIS. LET IT BE KNOWN, WE WON’T SIT FOR IT.”

Millie Bush
As dictated to Barbara Bush

Barney

Mary Guy figured that becoming a national celebrity was probably about as much as a squirrel could hope to achieve in one lifetime. But Barney is not your average squirrel.

Mary has a bottled water business in Garden City, Kansas. She is also a known animal lover. One day in August of 1994, one of her customers showed her an orphaned baby fox squirrel that he had found. When he asked if she could care for it, she felt she had to at least give it a try.

It so happened that a week earlier, Mary’s cat, Corky, had had four kittens. Mary’s husband, Charlie, suggested they try adding the squirrel to the litter of kittens—and it worked! Barney (named by a grandson after a particular purple dinosaur) was not only adopted by Corky, he was accepted as a sibling by all four kittens. He became especially close with one feline sister, Celeste.

Some of the Guys’ guests thought this cat/squirrel family was so adorable that they contacted the local newspaper about it. The paper ran a story with a photo of the mother cat nursing her four kittens and Barney under the headline: “One of these kittens seems sort of squirrelly.”

The unusual story was picked up by the Associated Press and sent to newspapers all over the country. As a result, Mary received calls and letters from all over the country, and even Canada, by people who were impressed with the story and picture. Barney was a celebrity!

Unfortunately, there was a downside to Barney’s fame.

The article was seen by employees of the Kansas Department of Wildlife and Parks. A state official contacted the Guys and told them that it is illegal to keep a squirrel as a pet in the state of Kansas. They would have to return Barney to the wild.

Mary was thunderstruck. Not only had she become attached to her unusual pet, she feared for his life if he was turned loose. He had no fear of cats—he’d been raised by one! But squirrels are rodents and cats are natural enemies of rodents. If Barney was turned loose, he’d be lunch for the first stray cat he met. She explained this to the authorities, but to no avail. The law’s the law.

“Well, ma’am,” suggested one officer, “if you buy a hunting license, you can legally keep him until the end of squirrel season. It runs until December 31.”

It was a temporary solution, but Mary hurried out to pay the thirteen dollars for a hunting license.

Mary grieved as the end of the year approached. She had come to truly love the mischievous little guy and was certain that turning him loose was tantamount to a death sentence.

Also, by this time, all of the kittens had been adopted except Celeste; and she and Barney were now best friends. They played together, slept together and chased each other all over the house. If Mary separated them, Celeste wailed miserably. And Barney showed not the slightest interest in life in the great outdoors.

Mary again approached the newspapers. Perhaps the same notoriety that had landed Barney in this mess could lead to a solution.

The story of Barney’s plight went out over the Associated Press wires. By early December, Mary was deluged with calls and letters from all over the country offering their prayers and moral support. Some callers who lived in states with differing laws even offered to take in both Barney and Celeste.

The Wildlife and Parks Department also received calls and mail from around the country. Not wanting to look heartless, they suggested that Barney might be released at the Garden City Zoo’s park. The Kansas Attorney General called Mary and suggested that she give Barney to a “rehabilitator” who would teach him to survive in the wild before releasing him.

Still, Mary feared for the safety of her beloved pet—and knew he didn’t want to leave his happy life any more than she wanted to lose him.

As New Year’s Eve approached, the Guys saw one slim chance. The new year would bring a new administration into the Kansas statehouse. Mary arranged for friends who were invited to the new governor’s inaugural celebration to take information about Barney with them.

One of the first acts of the Kansas governor’s office in 1995 was to issue the Guys a special permit to keep their squirrel.

And so Barney became the first squirrel in history to not only become a national celebrity, but to receive a pardon from the governor.

No, not your average squirrel at all.

Gregg Bassett
President, The Squirrel Lover’s Club

Mousekeeping

Until a certain sunny morning in early September, I had never sought the company of mice. On that day, my husband, Richard, called me out to the barn of our Rhode Island farm, where I found him holding a tin can and peering into it with an unusual expression of foolish pleasure. He handed me the tin can as though it contained something he had just picked up at Tiffany’s.

Crouched at the bottom was a young mouse, not much bigger than a bumblebee. She stared up with eyes like polished seeds. She was a beautiful little creature and clearly still too small to cope with a wide and dangerous world.

Richard had found her on the doorstep. When he picked her up, he thought the little mouse was done for. By chance he had a gumdrop in his pocket, and he placed the candy on his palm beside the limp mouse. The smell acted as a stimulant. She flung herself upon the gumdrop, ate voraciously and was almost instantly restored to health.

Richard made a wire cage for Mousie, as we now called her, and we made a place for her on a table in the kitchen. I watched her while I peeled vegetables. I found myself fascinated by her—I had no idea there were so many things to notice about a mouse.

Her baby coat was a dull, gun-metal gray, but it soon changed to reddish brown with dark gray anklets and white feet. I had thought the tails of mice were hairless and limp. Not so. Mousie’s tail was furred, and rather than trailing it behind like a piece of string, she held it up quite stiffly. Sometimes the tail rose over Mousie’s back like a quivering question mark.

She cleaned herself like a cat. Sitting on her small behind (she could have sat on a postage stamp without spilling over), she licked her flanks, then moistened her paws to go over her ears, neck and face. She would grasp a hind leg with suddenly simian hands while she licked the extended toes. For the finale she would pick up her tail and, as though eating corn on the cob, wash its length with her tongue.

Mousie became tame within a few days. She nibbled my fingers and batted them with her paws like a playful puppy. She liked to be petted. If I held her in my hand and rubbed gently with a forefinger, she would raise her chin, the way a cat will, to be stroked along the jawbone. Then she would lie flat on her back in the palm of my hand, eyes closed, paws limp and nose pointed upward in apparent bliss.

Our little friend slept in a plastic Thermos cup, lined with rags that she shredded into fluff as soft as a down quilt. After a while I replaced the cup with half a coconut shell that I inverted, cutting a door into the lower edge. It was a most attractive mouse house, quite tropical in feeling. Mousie stuffed it from floor to ceiling with fluff.

The cage was equipped with twigs for a perch and an exercise wheel on which Mousie traveled many a league to nowhere. Her athletic ability was astounding. Once I put Mousie in an empty garbage pail while I cleaned the cage. She made a straight-upward leap of fifteen inches, nearly clearing the rim.

Mousie kept food in a small aluminum can we had screwed to the wall of the cage. Richard and I called it the First Mouse National Bank. If I sprinkled bird seed in the cage, Mousie worked diligently to transport it, stuffing the seeds in her little cheeks for deposit in the bank.

Though Mousie kept busy, I feared that her life might be lonely. I asked a biologist I knew for help. He’s the one who determined Mousie’s sex (to a lay person, the rear end of a mouse is quite enigmatic), and he provided a male laboratory mouse as a companion.

The new mouse had a stout body, hairless tail and a mousy smell—unlike our Mousie, who was seemingly odorless. I named him Stinky and with some misgivings put him in Mousie’s cage.

Stinky lumbered about, squinting at nothing in particular, until he stumbled across some of Mousie’s seeds. He made an enthusiastic buck-toothed attack on these goodies. Flashing down from her perch, Mousie bit Stinky’s tail. He continued to gobble. Disgusted, Mousie went to bed.

From this unpromising start, a warm attachment bloomed. The two mice slept curled up together. Mousie spent a great deal of time licking Stinky, holding him down and kneading him with her paws. He returned her caresses, but with less ardor. He reserved his passion for food.

One day as an experiment, I put Mousie’s food bank on the floor of the cage. Stinky sniffed at the opening. Mousie watched, whiskers quivering, and I had the distinct impression of consternation on her face. With a quickness of decision that amazed me, Mousie seized a wad of bedding, stuffed it into the bank, effectively corking up her treasure. It was a brilliant move. Baffled, Stinky lumbered away.

In spite of their ungenerous behavior toward each other, I felt that Stinky made Mousie happy. Their reunions after being separated were always joyous, with Mousie scrambling all over Stinky and just about licking him to pieces. Even stolid old Stinky showed some excitement.

I wasn’t aware when Stinky became ill. But one day after about a year, I saw Mousie sitting trembling on her branch when she should have been asleep. I looked in the cage and found Stinky stone-cold dead.

Alone the rest of her days, Mousie lived a total of more than three years. That, I believe, is a good deal beyond the span usually allotted to mice. She showed no sign of growing old or feeble. Then one day, I found her dead.