Man and Mouse

“Look at all those dehydrated cows.” Dad pointed out the window. “Just waiting until it rains!”

Hay bales filled the empty field in evenly spaced rows, drying in the sun.

We giggled in the back seat. He said it at every field of hay, but it never got old to us.

I was six, and my sisters were four and two. To us, our family was the whole world. Dad had to travel for work a lot. But whenever he could, he found ways to escape with us for adventures.

The drive to Wyoming seemed like it lasted days back then. Somehow, Dad always made the journey more entertaining.

“I miss the kitties,” my sister said.

“Don’t worry.” Dad turned over his shoulder to grin. “They’re up on the piano dancing while Mindi plays. Remember?”

Her pout curled into a smile and she nodded.

We cruised down the long highway, our trailer rattling along behind us. I’d given up reading by then, staring out the windows instead.

To our left, a valley opened up, dipping down into a low mass of willows. A wide river wound lazily in between the leafy bunches of green.

“See down there?” Dad nodded. “That’s moose country. Slow-moving water and lots of cover. Just how they like it. See if you can spot one.”

Enthralled, the three of us peered down into the greenery for a glimpse of an antler or a dark brown rump.

Then, before we knew it, the road turned rough and bumpy beneath us.

“Almost there!” Dad said.

“Dad, will you make us willow whistles again?” I asked.

“Of course.”

My sisters and I bounced in our carseats with excitement as our favorite alpine forest finally came into view.

The rest of the family was already up there. Grandpaw (always with a w), the Glads, and, of course, Great Uncle Mike.

(Over the years, Dad would tell us Great Uncle Mike’s infamous Wolf Story more times than we could count. And we loved it every time.)

As soon as we parked, my little sisters and I scampered off into the woods and left the grownups to do the unglamorous work of setting up camp. Dad, ever the precise one, always had his level out to make sure the trailer was aligned just so.

We finished an afternoon of catching frogs and climbing trees, stumbling back into camp exhausted, ravenous, and wildly happy.

Dad heated up three Kid Cuisine meals for us in the camper’s tiny microwave. Delighted, we swarmed around the table to devour soggy chicken nuggets and hot chocolate pudding. We never got Kid Cuisine at home.

Once we had nothing left but empty plastic trays, Dad held up a grocery bag. “Guess what I brought?”

He produced packs of glowsticks (the good ones, that shone like beacons and lasted for hours).

“Yes!”

We piled outside, snapping the glowsticks and shaking them with tiny fists. Dad had a kite, too, and we tied a glowstick onto the end so we could see it in the air, high above the treetops in the darkness.

He showed us how swing the sticks by a string and toss them into the air. We squealed and scattered as they came plummeting back to the ground.

(One of them got stuck in the top branches of a pine tree. And for all I know, it could still be there.)

When we were too tired to keep playing, Dad herded us back into the camper.

That’s when we saw them.

“Ahh! A mouse!”

The tiny cottonball of fur vanished into an unseen hole, followed by two partners in crime.

I leaped up onto the couch with my sisters.

“Aww, they’re so cute!”

I had been trying to persuade my parents to let me get a pet mouse for months at that point. I’d dropped gentle, subtle hints, like leaving notes, reciting information about rodent care, and rewriting every verse of The Twelve Days of Christmas with a mousey twist.

“Darn,” Dad said, crouching to look along the edges of the floor. “I wonder how they got in. They’re gonna chew up wires or something. I’ll have to reseal the bottom of the trailer.”

“Don’t hurt them, Daddy!” I jumped down to grab his arm. “Please?”

He straightened up and smiled. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

My sisters and I perched on the couch and watched Dad begin the process of invention.

An electrical engineering degree and years of toy assembly had given him no small amount of know-how at rigging up just about anything.

Once his supplies were assembled, he laid the trap.

First, he tore up beef jerky into small pieces and laid it on top of a towel.

(Teriyaki flavored, as always. And we sampled it first, just to be sure it passed muster. Since it was the strongest-smelling food we’d brought, he said, it was the best choice for bait.)

Next, he carefully tied a long string to a battery and set it upright on the ground.

Then he set a large plastic bowl on top, leaning it against the battery to create a dome.

After that, he sat up and waited.

I vowed to wait with him, leaning against a pillow and watching in the half-light of a lantern.

Around us, crickets chirped and a herd of cows lowed softly in the distance.

I’m not sure when my eyes drifted shut, but I was snoozing on the couch before long.

Not my dad, though. He waited until the mice crept over to snatch a bit of jerky, then pulled the battery out and trapped them neatly under the bowl.

In the morning, he took them outside and released them into the brush to go on their merry way, stomachs full of stolen snacks. Then, as expected, he sealed the bottom of the trailer to keep us from having a repeat performance that night.

“No more mice,” he said at breakfast.

“Unless we get one at home.” I shot him a cheeky grin.

And that was that — we moved on to a full week of silver-dollar pancakes, late-night stories around the campfire, and treks into the sweet-smelling wildflower fields.

At the time, I was simply happy the mice were outside and we were free to keep enjoying our annual trip.

But now, I wish I could go back and hug my dad even tighter that morning.

He’d helped get a young family ready for a long, remote trip. Packing books, blankets, diapers, and everything in between.

He’d prepared the extra touches to make sure we had the time of our lives.

He’d driven hours with a heavy load, vigilant and yet lighthearted as we navigated backcountry roads.

While we were off exploring, he’d been making our site comfy and cozy.

Then, after all that, when he was dead tired and ready to savor a good night’s rest in the great outdoors, he’d still done it.

He’d taken the time to build a humane trap in true MacGyver style. Then he’d waited, squinting in the darkness to capture three unruly forest critters while everyone else slept.

My dad loved animals and nature, sure. But I know that’s not really why he did it.

He did it because he loved his three tenderhearted daughters.

He would have moved a mountain for us — so what were a few little mice?