Fortunately, a lot of these human homes have large wheeled bins parked in the grass just above the curb. They’re all very fragrant.
I sniff the air at the base of one of these tall plastic towers. I can’t believe my luck. It’s a rolling silo stuffed with slightly used food. Using my claws like grappling hooks, I scale the sheer cliff of Mount Breakfast Buffet and perch atop its summit. One of the white plastic bags stuffed inside the enormous bin is open at the top. I see grapes. A slice of bread speckled with blue-green blotches. And some lumpy mush that might be mashed potatoes (I read about that in a cookbook).
It’s a smorgasbord!
My stomach gurgles to remind me that I’m starving and to urge me to steal anything that’s edible. Yes, for the first time in my short life, I am acting like a true mouse (or a mus). I’m a food thief.
And I’m loving it!
This gently used food is delicious!
I gobble three wrinkled grapes. Scoop up the mushy stuff (turns out it’s cold oatmeal with maple syrup). Devour an apple core.
It’s all so scrumptious! I’m discovering new tastes. Expanding my culinary horizons. Like I said, I was raised on nothing but kibble. Dry, disgusting stuff that tastes like cardboard. How do I know what cardboard tastes like? I just accidentally nibbled the corner of a cereal box and recognized the flavor right away. Kibble.
I’m so glad I didn’t turn tail and head back to the Horrible Place. This new world is much more delicious.
I lean back on my soft bread bed to savor yet another wrinkled grape when I feel something nudge my food tower.
Something big.
I peek over the edge.
Yipes!
It’s a rat!
CHAPTER 5
“All of us are given gifts. How we use them is up to us.”
—Isaiah
My fantastic food fortress is being attacked by rats. Giant, buck-toothed, slimy-skinned, mean-tempered RATS!
Yes, rats are related to mice. We’re both members of the rodent family. But rats are like the greedy, violent, and despicable cousins. I don’t mean to disparage my own extended family, but come on, let’s be honest here: rats are awful.
I feel a double thump down below. I muster enough courage to take another peek over the edge of my food barrel.
Yipes.
I do not like what I see.
A gang of huge rats is streaming up out of the nearest sewer drain.
Obviously, the rats smelled the deliciousness of the Slightly Used Food Silo just like I did. Now they want to knock my rolling food cart over and gobble up all the grub that spills out of it—and then nibble on me for dessert.
Good thing the barrel I chose to dive into has wheels. When the rats nudge its base, it doesn’t topple over. It simply scoots sideways in the grass.
Frustrated, the rats grumble and bash into the base of the bin even harder, using their heads as battering rams. That’s okay. They don’t use their heads for much else.
You see, my ratty cousins may be huge and ugly, but they’re also dumb. Then again, they haven’t been given the “educational opportunities” that I have. None of them is familiar with the theories of balance and weight shift.
On the other hand, they are smart enough to have me trapped. No way am I leaping down to become a bite-sized rat snack.
The crazy rodents keep bumping and thumping and shoving the barrel sideways. The leader of the rat pack looks up and sees me. He twitches his whiskers and sniggers. It is not a friendly sound. It’s more like he’s smacking his lips in anticipation of the mousy mousse to come.
So I decide it’s time to display another one of my rare and unusual talents. There’s more to me than just being blue. I take in a deep breath and rise up to my full height, which, just to remind you, is less than six inches.
Compared to me, the rats are gigantic. As big as work boots. It doesn’t matter. Like I said, I have this pretty incredible thing I can do.
“KIBBLE!” I scream.
That’s right. I can make sounds beyond the usual mouse squeaks and peeps.
I have a voice. I can actually speak some human words, especially ones I’ve heard over and over.
“KIBBLE!” I shout.
The top rat looks up at me with a new expression in his beady little eyes. I recognize the look. It’s fear.
“KIBBLE!” This time I wave my paws like I’m some sort of mad, demented boogeymouse.
Top Rat shrieks and, with a whip of his wiry tail, races back to his sewer grate. The rest of his rat buddies skitter off behind him.
In a flash, they’re gone.
And my heart wants to explode inside my chest. It was the first time I’ve had to save my own life!
I might’ve scared off the rats, but I’m still pretty scared myself. Okay, I’m petrified. Rat attacks will do that to you.
I want my family!
By the way, did you know that, like most mice mothers, mine had all ninety-seven of us in less than a year? Why so many children? you wonder. Well, the Long Coats say that the average mouse only lives a year, maybe two. I guess we need a lot of new kids or else our whole species could go the way of the dinosaurs and disappear from the face of the Earth.
But I also heard one of the Long Coats say that all the mice from the Horrible Place are different from the average mouse in every way imaginable. One even said I might live as long as a human being!
How long is that? Humans, because they never have to worry about birds or cats or being stepped on (or being eaten by their stupid rat cousins), can live much, much longer than mice.
Wouldn’t that be amazing?
Think of all the birthday parties I would have!
CHAPTER 6
“Be careful. That light at the end of the tunnel could be an oncoming train.”
—Isaiah
When I’m absolutely, positively, unquestionably certain that the rats are gone, I grab a hunk of green bread for the road and hop out of my food barrel.
I need to keep moving. I dash down to the street and, staying close to the concrete curb, follow the road to wherever it might lead.
Yipes!
I didn’t want it to lead to this. Because this is worse than all those deranged rodents ramming my food barrel.
This is a cat.
It’s slinking around. Slow and cool. Searching for the best angle of attack. Its shoulders sway easily as it circles me, just like a lion, which, by the way, is just a huge window cat without the litter box. All cats are excellent hunters. That’s their super special talent.
Frozen in fear, I have time to study this particular beast. It’s a black sphynx cat. Did you know that sphynx cats are hairless? They’re also very muscular, with extremely powerful necks and paw pads so thick they look like they’re walking on pillows.
Yes, I know a lot about cats. I also know I am in a life-or-death situation. So, I try my trick again. Maybe it’ll save my life twice today.
“KIBBLE!”
The cat cocks its wedge-shaped head. Confusion fills its evil, acid-yellow eyes.
I seize my moment and dash up the driveway. Unfortunately, the wrinkled, hairless monster chases after me.
I dive for the shrubbery under the porch. The cat dives after me.
I dodge right, aiming for the corner where the porch meets the steps.
The cat mirrors my every move, blocking my escape. I’m trapped, with my back up against the bricks.
But the cat doesn’t pounce.
It wants to play. A game called Cat and Mouse, which, in my humble opinion, should be renamed Worst Game Ever. It’s like Ping-Pong, only I’m the ball and the cat’s deadly paws are the paddles.
As if it can hear my thoughts, the cat flicks its massive paw and I go flying against the wall.
Ow.
When I bounce back, he bops me again with his other giant mitt. He’s loving this. He even giggles a hideously hissy “heh-heh-heh.” And then he whacks me against the wall again.
I’m seei
ng stars twinkling behind my eyes.
The cat creeps closer. So close, I can read its name tag.
How adorable.
His name is Lucifer.
CHAPTER 7
“You have to stand for something, otherwise you’ll spend your whole life on your butt.”
—Isaiah
So there I am. Cornered.
And the devil cat is ready for the next round of Whack-A-Mouse.
I decide enough is enough. I have reached my limit, ladies and gentlemen. I am tired of being attacked for who I am. I will not become this cat’s furry toy.
I am a mouse, which you’ll remember comes from the Sanskrit word mus, for thief. Therefore, it is time to rob this prune-skinned fiend of his freakish fun.
Lucifer’s tag jingles as he winds up his right paw to swat me again. I curl up into an extremely tight ball. Lucifer rears back and smacks me. A real wallop.
I bounce hard off the brick, rebounding like I’m a Super Ball made of compressed rubber. I fly straight at the cat. I smack him, headfirst, right in his gut.
His “meow” becomes a “me-OUCH!”
I drop to the ground. Tuck and roll.
And while Lucifer’s clutching his tummy with his front paws, I sink my small but extremely pointy teeth into one of his hind legs. I go for the ankle. Aim for a tender tendon at the back of his heel. A tendon that’s easy to see since baldy has no fur.
Lucifer screeches like a hippopotamus just stepped on his tail.
I take off, flying. Not literally (I can’t actually fly), but like I said earlier, I am speedy. If you ever get the chance, chase some cheese on a workout wheel. It’ll make you fast, especially when you’re furious.
Lucifer isn’t too keen on chasing me anymore. I glance over my shoulder and see that he’s licking his wounds. Literally.
I use my whiskers and tail to chart a course through the flower bed’s underbrush. I run along the side of the brick house and scoot around to the backyard.
Is Lucifer chasing after me again? I’m too busy running to look behind me.
Up ahead, I see a stockade fence, made out of wooden planks. There’s a tiny hole where a pine knot used to be. A hole Lucifer couldn’t fit through in a million years.
I make a break for it.
I sprint across the grass, take a flying leap, stretch out my legs, and soar through the knothole. I am actually flying! (Well, sort of.)
I shoot through the hole and land on the other side of the fence in a bed of pine-bark mulch beneath a row of fruit trees. There’s an overly ripe apple lying on the ground. I munch my way around it while I contemplate my next move. With cruel cats and hungry birds on the hunt, it just isn’t safe for a bright blue mouse to wander around outdoors.
The apple trees are behind a house that looks a lot like the one where I met Lucifer. Actually, a lot of homes in Suburbia look the same.
I wipe the apple juice off my paws, fluff up my fur, and head toward the house.
And hope this one doesn’t have a cat.
CHAPTER 8
“No matter the temperature, home is always colder when there’s no family to share it with.”
—Isaiah
Maybe I should’ve kept on running.
Maybe I should’ve found another storm drain to hide in.
Maybe I should’ve crawled back to the Horrible Place to be with my family again.
Instead, I move closer to the house because I can’t resist the tantalizing aroma of cinnamon, apples, butter, and brown sugar wafting out of its screen door. I recognize that scent. It’s fresh-baked apple pie!
One day, not too many sunrises ago, a Long Coat brought an apple pie to the Horrible Place. She walked right past me with a cardboard box all tied up with red and white string. I was working out on the wheel, but the scent stopped me dead in my tracks. In my humble opinion, apple pie smells just like heaven.
I study the screen door of the house. There’s a flap set into it, with “Pet Door” printed on the rubber strip edging the fabric. That means the flap is a door designed for friendly animals to use as an entrance and exit.
I’ve always considered myself to be the friendly sort. So, I bound up the short set of steps and poke my head through the pet door.
Mmm! My whiskers twitch with delight at the strong scent of apple pie goodness. I climb through the pet door. I’m inside the house.
So is the apple pie baker.
She’s a large woman in a flour-dusted apron. She has her hands on her hips and is scowling down at me. She also has a rolling pin.
“Get out of my kitchen, you filthy rodent!” she screams.
She flings her rolling pin at me. I take that as my cue to skedaddle. I dive back through the pet door and scamper away.
“And stay out, vermin!”
Her words hurt as they echo in my ears. Vermin is not a very nice thing to call any creature. It means you’re a pest or a parasite. A bug to be squashed. A fly to be swatted. A mouse to be trapped in a sticky glue box.
Yes, I not only understand words, I also understand their meaning. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so “gifted and talented.”
Just between you and me, I don’t really enjoy knowing that there are people in the world who hate me even though they don’t even know me.
So I keep running.
But soon I’m slowing down. Okay, I’m walking. Even all that cheese-chasing on the exercise wheel couldn’t give you the stamina you need to run for eight hours straight.
The streets are dark except for one or two pools of light underneath the lonely street lamps.
More time passes. Stars sparkle like broken icicles in the sky. I realize I’m shivering. For once, it’s not because I’m afraid. No, my teeth are chattering because I’m cold.
Usually, mice stay warm by cuddling together in a burrow and sharing body heat. Tonight, however, that is not an option. I’m alone. I’m also exhausted. I take a chance and sneak up on the least intimidating home I can find. The bottom is made of cinder blocks, which have hollow spaces inside them, just like snug concrete burrows. I notice an opening in a cinder block with clumps of old, dry leaves and pine needles. I find some velvety green moss growing on a rock, scrape it off, and wrap it in a waxy leaf I pluck off a bush. It will make a nice pillow.
When my home for the night is as comfy as possible, I crawl in and curl up.
I’m pretty cozy. I’m also pretty lonely. I’ve never spent a night away from my family before. As horrible as the Horrible Place was, at least we were all together. I miss my brothers and sisters.
Abe, Benji, Clement, Delilah, Eli, Felicity, Felix…
In my head, I recite all their names. When I hit Zuzu, I start all over again. On the third pass, I fall asleep, dreading the dreams that might come.
The craziest day of my life has turned into the saddest night of my life.
And I don’t expect tomorrow to be much better.
CHAPTER 9
“Hunger drives the wolf out of the wood and the mouse into the garbage can.”
—Isaiah
Most mice usually sleep about twelve hours a day.
When I wake up, I feel like I may have slept for an entire day. Maybe longer. I remember waking up once, fluffing up my moss pillow, and covering my eyes with a clump of straw when a dusty sunbeam found its way into my burrow and tried to warm my face.
I ignored it and went back to sleep.
But the second time the sun bursts through my thimble-sized doorway, my stomach won’t let me cover up my eyes and roll over. It’s growling angrily for me to feed it.
Get up, Isaiah, I tell myself. No one’s coming with your morning scoop of kibble. If you want to eat, you need to go out there and find yourself some food!
I crawl out of my nest in the wall. My plan is to return to the sidewalks of Suburbia and find another rolling food tower. I scamper across the front lawn, aiming for another Used Food Bin conveniently parked near the curb.
Suddenly, there is a tremendous noi
se. Air explodes. A monster grinds its teeth. The whole earth shakes.
A hulking white truck rumbles slowly up the street with a human hanging off the back.
I duck behind a ceramic lawn ornament to hide.
Peeking around the plaster burro pulling a donkey cart filled with potted petunias, I spy a burly human in a shiny orange vest scooping up my breakfast buffet and dumping it into the wide-open jaws at the rear of the mammoth white truck.
This is horrible! I’m being out-mused. They’re stealing the food I was going to steal, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
When they’re finished feeding the back end of the truck my breakfast, the humans toss the rolling barrel on its side in the strip of grass between the sidewalk and the curb. Then they rumble down the road to plunder the next bin.
I look up the street to where they’ve already been. All the barrels are lying on their sides. I know they’re empty. My delicious breakfast has been fed to the giant white truck, which, it seems, is even hungrier than I am. The humans are feeding it every bin they can find on the block.
Is this what it means to truly be a mouse? Is my life outside of the Horrible Place doomed to become nothing but an endless quest for food and shelter?
When the humans and their hungry truck are two houses away, I sneak up to the empty barrel.
I smell something foul.
I see a puddle of wet, chunky slop trapped in one of the dimpled indentations near the barrel’s bottom. The soupy stew smells ripe, rank, and rotten.
But, it is food.
I hold my nose and lap it up.
Yes, being a mouse—even one with bright blue fur—isn’t pretty.
Neither is the food.
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