Ent, the Mouse: A True Story from Childhood

My brother Ted was endowed with the gift of creative mischief. From a young age, he could imitate voices and mannerisms, reenact scenarios most people found mundane, and have an audience splitting their sides with laughter. He had an uncanny way of unmasking hypocrisy, uplifting the underdog, the lonely and despised, and sprinkling any drudgery or pessimism with his magic powder of fun and positivity. His energy and sense of adventure was unmatched. Few grownups could keep pace with him, but that’s what I loved about him.

My brother and I were best friends. He was born on my dad’s birthday. Two years later, I was born on my mom’s birthday. We knew we had a special bond even though there were six other kids in our family, three older than us and three younger. The middle of a large family—what was there not to like?

Finding a baby sitter was no easy ask because although there was an astounding number of kids, there was double that number of pets. But Ted’s pet, Ent, was one of the most memorable.

For his ninth birthday, Ted was allowed his choice of pet from the pet store, and a white mouse with pink eyes and a long, ratty tail won the day. Its cage, an old, glass aquarium, sat on top of the boys’ dresser although most of the time the mouse ran loose through the house. Its tiny pink claws ticked on the tiles as it ran the length of the floor close to the wall under the heaters. That was enough to freak out most young lady sitters because randomly it would shortcut clear across the living room. Several times it vaulted right over visitors’ shiny footwear as they entered.

For large portions of the day, Ent inhabited Ted’s pocket—either the pocket on the front of his school button shirt, or a jeans pocket. Its pink twitchety nose was its telltale sign of occupation, but grownups rarely picked up on this small detail.

As kids we weren’t exactly book worms, but there was one dog-eared book we poured over relentlessly-- The Guinness Book of World Records. We fought over it in the library, signing it out again and again, and I will confess, once in a while we smuggled it out to keep it long-term. The extraordinary information we found between its covers boggled our minds. Facts such as the heaviest person in the world—1,400 pounds, and the longest fingernails-- 42 feet, the largest baby, the stretchiest stomach skin, loudest burb, fattest woman, set off gales of giggles. We found this information both hilarious and at the same time, inspirational. From these readings, my brother and I connived how we, too, could perform a fete worthy of publishing.

After much debate, we concluded that Ent, the mouse, would pave the way to fame. We would assist Ted’s mouse in performing stunts and activities that no other mouse in the world had ever done before. My brother started building it a miniature sulky complete with shafts and traces. Our mom, always faithful in encouraging innovation, sewed a leather harness for Ebony, my pet rabbit. Once the rabbit was strapped, the delicate sulky with plywood wheels was hitched behind. Next, as I hung on to our rather explosive rabbit, Ted placed Ent into the sulky box and latched the tiny door. Ent would have its first rabbit ride.

I released the rabbit and it bulleted across the yard with the sulky bouncing behind. The delicate hand-stitched harness was no match for the rabbit’s giant hoppers, and it soon shook the contraption off, and wagon and mouse catapulted down a bank.

In trepidation, my brother and I lifted the wheeled box and unlatched the tiny door. Ent was no worse for wear, its pink nose wiggling inquisitively. Ted picked it up, snuggled it to his cheek, and returned it to its usual place in his jeans pocket.

Our next planned endeavor for Ent was a ride into space. We loved kites, and our family’s entryway was strewn with reels, mostly large clunky ones we had made in the garage, kite string in various tangles, plastic and nylon, broken kite sticks, and one great big dilapidated box kite broken horribly during its first take-off out on the lawn. We had salvaged it, hoping at some point we would get around to repairs.

Pawing through the wreckage, we chose a red nylon kite, still in decent shape. Its tail had slipped behind a pile of ski poles and outgrown roller skates, but we quickly had it untangled.

Ted rummaged in the kitchen cupboard and found an empty cottage cheese container. He poked holes in the lid with a nail while I raided the fridge for a slice of cheese. He gently placed Ent in the container with the cheese, its lunch tray for the flight. We used dental floss to tie the container with its mouse occupant a few inches below the kite, and carried the whole contraption out on the lawn.

While I held the kite flat and as high as I could, Ted stood up-wind with the reel, watching intently for the kite to catch. It didn’t take much, and he tore down the field, letting the string out as he ran, careful not to leave slack. The wind was perfect, and the kite rocketed upwards, tail streaming out behind. We watched the white cottage cheese container bob smaller and smaller against the blue sky. Ent was flying, and we were ecstatic. We could no longer see the container, now we could hardly see the kite, a tiny speck in space. Surely it was almost to the moon, and Ent would truly be famous!

Ent was a beloved part of the family, and the whole experiment was not conducted without worry. Ted spun the string out, more, more. The wind remained steady; the string stayed taut just the way professional kite flyers like us knew it had to be. Ent stayed in flight till dark.

Getting him down was not easy. The branches of the tallest trees around our yard resembled a kite graveyard or Buddhist ceremonial prayer flags. But with Ent’s life at steak, his descent was conducted by only the most skilled hand, with all the siblings chiming in on the advice.

Once again, Ent disembarked, nose and whiskers quavering just a little, each miniscule pink toe and toe nail in perfect condition for the next adventure, soon to follow.

April Fools’ Day was a big deal in our school. We started laying plans weeks ahead. This year Ted and I hoped that Ent would feature big. Ted’s teacher, Sharon, an older lady whom we loved dearly, knew Ted never meant his pranks to be mean. That day our plan was to arrive in the fifth grade classroom early and put Ent in Sharon’s desk. Wouldn’t she be surprised when she reached to get out her red pen? Ent would stick out its little pink nose, and how Sharon would laugh!

We hurried through breakfast that morning and scurried off to school. Classmates of Ted were alert to pranks, especially on April 1st. Last year, Ted’s job that week had been to pour the milk cups and pass them out before recess. The administration believed that a cup of milk at 10:00 helped feed the brain and strengthen bones.

Ted came to school that day equipped with a pocketful of wriggling earth worms, carefully rinsed so there would be no evidence when he dropped a worm into the bottom of each cup before pouring them full of milk, (all of them except his). One girl had swallowed one before the shrieks and screams erupted. “April Fools!” Ted had called out joyously. April Fools’ Day was a lot of fun.

I was in the fourth grade classroom across the hall, but I could see into Ted’s room and was excited for the day to begin. Ent was safely deposited in the wide, shallow front drawer of the teacher desk. The first lesson was always math with a man teacher. Sharon only arrived at 9:00. She took the kids for the rest of the morning until lunch with all the English classes—reading, writing, spelling, handwriting, and grammar. I could see from where I was sitting when Sharon walked into the classroom, some books and papers under her arm. She was always so cheerful and bright. She just loved kids and had a creative way about her even though she was a grandmother.

Every once in a while, Ted looked across the hall and caught my eye. He was getting fidgety. He had asked to go to the bathroom twice. Sharon hadn’t once sat down at her desk that morning! She strode up and down the aisles of fifth graders, passing things out, writing on the board, and lecturing from her podium. It was almost ten o’clock, milk time and recess, and nothing had happened! Ent had been through a lot in the last weeks, and it would be sad if he met a suffocating end in a teacher desk before he got into The Guinness Book of World Records.

The girls poked their fingers to the bottom of the milk this year before drinking. But Ted never did the same prank twice. Then we all rushed into the spring sunshine and out to the playground. I bumped into Ted, but we didn’t say much. Nothing to report so far.

Then all too soon recess was over and back we piled, hot and sweaty for the last classes before lunch.

Time was crawling like an army of ants. I could see the fifth graders all seated when Sharon strode in with her signature mug of coffee. She tugged at the string unrolling the mounted world map and started quizzing her students on the countries and capitals of Latin America. She loved teaching geography, and was known for adding a cooking element to her world geography classes, endearing herself to hungry school boys.

Ted looked over at me for the hundredth time across the hallway. Sharon was not young anymore, and as the morning ground down, she finally tired like an old golf cart running out of battery. With a last dusty swipe, she swept the chalkboard clean, clapped her hands together to knock off the chalk, and headed to her desk. She took hold of the back of the chair, tucked a hand behind her skirt and prepared to sit.

I eyed Ted keenly. He leaned forward, eyes dry from watching. Now Sharon sat, scooted forward a few inches, and straightened the stapler and three-hole punch on the desk top. The kids in the five rows of desks sat occupied, heads down, pens scratching.

Now Sharon was laying both bony, work-worn hands on the front drawer handle. Now she was sliding it open.

I remember it like a horror movie in slow motion. From my vantage point I had both a view of my brother’s face and Sharon’s desk, and a good angle on the rest of the fifth grade class room as well.

The room was the perfect picture of concentrated studiousness. And then it wasn’t.

A scream pierced the silence like a dagger. High pitched. Desperate. Like murder. Black shoes and tan nylon stockings, like two skinny sticks, stuck upwards above the teacher desk top. A cracking bang, reverberated at the same instant. Scream, Bang, legs pointing upward like windblown pine trees on a mountaintop. Sharon was on the floor, her chair thrown backwards!

Ted leapt to his feet, tripping over himself to reach his teacher, to rescue her from a horrible prank gone terribly awry! As he rounded the backside of the teacher desk, Ent’s wriggling pink nose was peeking out over the red pens and ticky-tacky. A smile played around his mousy nose and whiskers-- the little devil.

Before Ted could offer Sharon his hand, a flutter of fifth grade girls, the ones who never got in trouble, lifted Sharon to her feet and smoothed her skirts. Another one, blond braids bobbing, hurried down the hall to the principal’s office, always eager to be the first to tattle the tale, another triumph for her-- and punishment for the evil doer.

Once Sharon was settled back in her chair, it took several minutes of deep breathing to recover from shock. Students, alike, worried awkwardly about what to do next.

Sharon, however, understood ten year olds, their craving for fun and excitement. She understood that ill intent hadn’t motivated the prank. She knew and loved my brother despite, or maybe because of his creative naughtiness. She understood that good behavior doesn’t always mean a good heart; like-wise bad behavior doesn’t always denote a bad heart—rather often, quite the opposite.

We never got around to contacting The Guinness Book of World Records, but we did have more than our share of adventures with Ent, the Mouse. And a lot of fun besides.