Last night I laid to rest Martin, beloved and seriously annoying mouse.  Martin led a good long life, living with me for over a year with his squeaky wheel.  To the best of my knowledge Martin was a year and a half old when he died, which is a good long life for a food mouse.  He was buried in the dumpster along with George, the Christmas tree, and took with him his favorite sock and his prized squeaky wheel.

Martin came to live with me on my 22nd birthday.  He was the child of terror and was confused as to how to behave around humans.  Mostly he just hid from me.  See, Martin was originally intended to be food for my brother's pet snake.  But somehow Martin escaped in the van on the way home and spent hours eluding my family until my sister found him doing battle with one of the cats.  She took him hostage and refused to give him back, but because she lives in a dorm she couldn't take him with her and so the crazy thing came to live with me.

Martin and I had an interesting relationship.  I'd buy him food, change his litter, and let him live in an old sock.  In turn he'd smell bad and run on his wheel in the middle of the night so that it made the most horrendous squeaking noise.  But we grew fond of each other.  Our real bonding moment came the day I got so annoyed with him that I spontaneously yelled at him in Russian rather than my intended English.  He froze and looked up at me in a sort of understanding.  That's when it hit me.  Martin was no ordinary food mouse, he was a Russian speaking food mouse!  From that time he became my little myshka and I became the insane person who had a pet mouse she only spoke to in a foreign language.  But we were a good pair.

I wish I had a picture to post of Martin, but he hated cameras in a way only the Amish can truly respect.  So instead I'll just say good bye, moya malenkaya myshka.

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