*Saving Booger Hole*

In college I knew this guy named Francis.  Sometimes I called him the Gentle Giant but that all stopped the day I found out he was gonna feed a cute little mouse to a mean old tarantula.

            “No how, no way,” I said.  “Not on my watch.”   

I'm not sure why Frank got a tarantula.  It's not like you can cuddle one or anything.  Frank named it Legs, 'cause he liked ZZ Top.    The mouse was a BOGO item--buy a tarantula, get its first meal free.
            I was walking through the common room on my dorm floor when I heard the announcement. 

            "Frank's gonna feed a mouse to his tarantula.  Who wants to--"
            That's all I heard.  I left a trail of my econ textbook, a spiral notebook, two Bic pens, my gloves, and a hoodie in the hall.  I flung open the door to Frank's room.  He lowered the beer bottle that was en route to his lips.  One corner of his mouth went up.  He didn't say it, but it seemed he was expecting me.
            I put my hands on my hips and glared at him and his red-headed roommate. "Where's the mouse?"
            The guys looked at each other, then back at me.  Frank used his beer bottle to point to the other side of the room.  I walked over and sat at his desk.  Put my hands on the ends of the cardboard pet box.  A half-dozen fiber optic-looking whiskers stuck out of the air holes.  I touched them.  They retracted.  After a minute, a little eraser pink nose poked out, all quivery. 
            "That does it,"  I said.
            I picked up the mouse house and held it close to my heart.  Walked back to the red head's side of the room. 
            "How much?"
            Frank squinted.  "How much what?"
            "How much for the mouse?"
            Frank shrugged.  "I don't know," he said.  "That probably would’ve fed Legs for a good month."
            "Crickets 'til the end of the year," I said.
            Frank shook his head.  "What?"
            "I'll buy your stupid spider a bag of crickets every week 'til the end of the year in exchange for this little guy."  I tapped the top of the box.
            When he didn't answer, I braced the pet container on my hip with one hand and held out my other. 

            "Deal?"
            Frank looked at the ceiling a minute, then stuck his hand out.  "Deal." 

            He took his time letting my hand go.

The next day, Frank and I rode the elevator to the ninth floor after lunch.
            "You want a lift to the pet store?" he said, before he turned left and I went right off the elevator.
            I looked up at him and wrinkled my nose.  "What for?"
            "You know.  Mouse food?  Crickets?"

            "Oh.  Yeah.  I guess I do.  Let me get some cash."
            My mad money from Dad was running low so I bought Booger Hole a glass turtle bowl instead of a fancy Habitrail.  I didn't buy him any food.  I'd just bring him scraps up from the dining hall.  I found a little blue dish for him to drink water out of 'cause I couldn't figure out how to attach a water bottle to the turtle bowl.

            Frank waited for me by the register, hands deep in his Wrangler pockets.  “All set?”

            I grinned.  “Yep.”

I named my  mouse Booger Hole 'cause one of my brothers had told me about a bluegrass band called Booger Hole Revival.  When you revive something, isn't it like snatching it from the jaws of death?  Like Jesus did Lazarus?
            Booger Hole was a silky, charcoal-colored mouse, the size of my thumb.  I could tell he was a boy 'cause--  Well, I could tell.  Even though he was super cute, Booger Hole turned out to be a pain in my butt.  He was forever peeing in my sweatshirt pockets and escaping his turtle bowl.  He didn't seem to realize or appreciate what I'd done for him--the way I'd purchased his redemption and all.  I loved him anyway.
            Booger figured out how to come and go early on.  Every morning he was inside his bowl, but there were always chocolate jimmy-looking mouse presents all over my desk.  I started putting a textbook on top of his bowl with a sliver of a gap for him to get air.  Each of my school books wound up with a crescent moon-shaped hole on the side opposite the spine.  I didn't get cash back for used books that semester. 

On about our fourth trip to the pet store, Frank turned to me at the stoplight right before the Mileground. 
            He looked at my knees instead of my face.  "Legs was scared of Booger." 
            I looked over at him and huffed.  "Are you serious?"
            Frank bent forward to see if the light had changed. 

            "Yeah.  I put Booger in with him and he ran to the other side of the tank."
            I didn't say anything.
            Frank cleared his throat.  "You don't have to keep buying crickets.  If you don't want to."
            I looked out my window and shook my head.  "No.  A deal's a deal."

And then I killed him--Booger Hole.  School was out for summer so Booger Hole and I went home to Huntington.
            One night I had one too many at the Varsity Club and I made a bad choice at two in the morning.  After I brushed my teeth, I got Booger out to play on my bed.  I passed out and when I woke up, I felt like the Princess and the Pea.  What is that lump under me?  It was Booger Hole, dead, but still warm. 
            I held him in my hand and sobbed.  Tried to wash my guilt away with tears.  I stroked his little body with my pointer finger.  All his important stuff was smooshed to one side.  Like when the loaf of bread gets crushed by the gallon of milk in your grocery bag.

I never got around to telling Frank I killed Booger Hole.  If I did, I’d have to face the fact that I’m a giant as sure as he is, only not as gentle.  Not by a long shot.

. . . Give and Take . . .

"What do you mean you don't know where the kids are?"

            Mom didn't look up from her crossword puzzle when I came in from lunch.

            "They said something about whiffleball," she said.  "Then a little later, they mentioned a white rabbit."

            I stood on the deck and squinted out at the spring drizzle.  I cupped my hands around my mouth. 

            "Kids!"

            "Over here!"  Their voices came from the woods.  I followed the sound of whoops and hollers. 

            "Come here, baby!"

            "Missed it.  Missed it by a mile!"

            "Don't be afraid.  We're real nice." 

            Thing one, two, and three darted here and there, trying to get close to the pale, zigzagging puffball.

            "Mom! It's headed your way!  Get it!"

            Espresso, white wine, and mineral water sloshed in my belly as I joined the chase.  Over logs, under cars, and into burrows the white rabbit went.  More than once I nearly fell as my feet slid on my fancy sandals and wet leaves.  Finally, I held an empty trash can on its side, and the kids chased the bunny into it. 

            "Are you okay, Mommy?" my son said.

            I sat in the wet grass, wheezing and cradling my abdomen.  "Yeah.  Why?"

            "Your face is a weird color."

            My stomach seemed to debate whether or not to give up my thirty dollar French lunch.  Oldest Child approached, the trembling rabbit clutched to her chest. 
            "Can we keep it?"

            "Ask Daddy."

A week later Middle Child came tearing up to the third floor. "Mom!  Honey’s a girl!"

            I looked over at the clock--6:30 a.m..  

            I squinted up at her. "Honey’s a girl?"

            "Honey Bunny's a mom!  She had seven babies and they're gross! All pink and wiggly, like worms."

           A few minutes later I knelt on the cool, concrete floor in the basement.  I peered into the crate.       Middle Child leaned against my back. 
          "I bet a rat snuck into the basement and mated her."
           I chuckled and tapped my son on the shoulder.  "Go get me a tablespoon." 
            He returned quickly.  I shivered when he put the spoon on my thigh.  I warmed it with my breath.  I opened the cage and carefully scooped up one lone baby bunny and deposited it on top of its siblings.  They were all snuggled in a heap, on a nest of silky soft, white fur.

            I turned to Oldest Child.  "Go upstairs and Google 'raising baby rabbits,'" I said.  "See if it's okay to touch 'em."

            Honey Bunny hunkered in the back of the crate.  I frowned.

            "She's not keeping them warm.  Not nursing 'em or anything.  She isn't very good at this mommy thing."

            "Maybe it's her first time," Middle Child said.

            My oldest daughter came back.  "A couple of websites say it's okay to touch them if the mother's tame."

            I counted days on my fingers.  "We've had her eight days and she's never bit anyone.  That means she's tame, right?"

            I reached in and stroked the baby on top of the pile.  I cooed.  It was soft and warm, like the back of a child's neck.

            The kids huddled around me. 

            "That one's gonna have black spots," Middle Child said.  "And I bet that one'll be all white."

            "Let's name 'em," my son said.  "The biggest one should be Goliath."

            "And we'll call that tiny guy, Gideon," I said.

            "The one that keeps leaving the pack," Oldest Child said, "He's an adventurer.  Let's call him Indiana Jones.  Indy for short."

            "We should call the one with black spots Domino," Middle Child said.

            It took us longer to name the others.  One became Pogo a few weeks later when it leapt into the air, over and over. 

            "Name something that's all white," I said.

            "Alaska," Oldest Child said as her eyes followed my gaze.  "And Juno's the capital of Alaska.  Let's call her Juno."

            "But what about the smallest white one?"  Middle Child said.  "How do you say white in French, Mommy?"

            "Je ne sais pas," I said.  "Bianca maybe?  Or is it Alba?"

            "Bianca Alba," Middle Child said.  "She's my favorite.  She's little like me."

I went to the Exotic Jungle on account of Bianca Alba.

            "Failure to thrive?" I said to the pre-vet salesgirl.  "Does that mean she'll die?"

            "Not necessarily," she said.  "Follow me."

            She stopped in front of a display.  "I've raised tons of baby rabbits by hand," she said.  "You need kitten milk.  And one of these eye droppers.  And some of this stuff." 

            She handed me a package of three small metal tubes.  "In the wild, they'd eat their mom's scat to get the healthy organisms for their gut, but since she's not bonded with them, give them each a little squirt of this once a week."

            We headed up to the cash register.  "She's not taking to them 'cause you held them.  You shouldn't touch them while they're pink.  Gotta wait until they get their peach fuzz."

            I whimpered.  "Aw, man!  The web--"

            She reached across the counter and patted my shoulder.  "Don't worry," she said.  "They'll be okay. I do this all the time."

One night I woke with the answer.  To why Bianca Alba wasn’t thriving.  I snuck down to the basement and peeked into the crate.  No nursing. 

            I pointed and hissed at Honey in the dark.  "Bad mommy!"

            "The website says they usually only nurse between the hours of midnight and five a.m.," I told my husband the next morning.  "Sometimes only once in a 24 hour period.  Man!  Rabbits must have super mama milk.  Still, I haven't seen 'em--" 

            My husband's eyes narrowed.

            I tilted my head.  "What?"

            "What are you up to?" he said.

            I shrugged.  "Nothing."  That you need to know about. 

After school I called for the kids.  They followed me to the basement.

            I pointed at them one by one.  "You, get a clean bath towel.  You, get Honey.  You, hold this strawberry basket while I get them and their fluff nest inside."

            "What are we doing, Mom?" Oldest Child said as we headed back upstairs.

            "We're gonna give Honey lactation training."

            I sat with my back against the dining room wall, the towel draped over my lap.

            "Hand me Honey."

            I stroked her and whispered into her long, warm ears.  "It'll feel like a Shop Vac on your nipples at first, but don't worry.  You'll get used to it."

            I flopped her on her back.  Nodded at my son. 

            "Hand me two babies."

            Each of the bunnies quickly located a teat.  They squirmed as they nursed, their back sides scooching left and right, like windshield wipers.  After ten minutes, the wriggling bodies relaxed.

            "Switch!"

            "They remind me of piranhas," my son said.  "Like the ones on the Discovery Channel.  Are they hurting her?"

            "Naw!" I said.  "She's fine.  Nudge Bianca.  She's asleep on the breast.  She needs it most of all."

            And that's how it went.  Twice a day, for weeks.  We bribed Honey with apples, carrots, and plantain leaves from the yard.  She gobbled our offerings non-stop while the babies nursed.  She was after all, eating for eight.

One day I squatted in front of the bunny crate.  Per usual, Bianca Alba was not with the others. 

            I used a broom handle to scoot her to them. "You have to stay with your brothers and sisters," I said.  “They'll keep you warm."

            I gave her extra nursings.  Encouragement too.  "Thrive, Baby Bianca.  Thrive."

            I fed her kitten milk in between feedings, putting the tiny dropper into her mouth and squeezing the rubber part.  I sighed as most of it ran down her chin and chest.

            "Let's stay up with her tonight, Mommy," Middle Child said one afternoon.  "To keep her warm.  And to feed her."

            I nodded.  And to pray for her.  I had this bad feeling.

            Middle Child lay on the love seat under her purple, fuzzy blanket.  I sprawled on the sofa with a zebra-striped throw.  We took turns feeding Bianca and holding her on our chests.

            "I'm giving you another name," I told Bianca at midnight.  "You're going to be Bianca Alba Lazarus 'cause Jesus is going to bring you back from the death cave."

            I wiped my eyes and sniffed.  'Cause I think that's where you're headed.

            She was so wee.  She'd fit in a quarter cup measure.  Her fur wasn't sleek like the others.'  It was streaked with milk and sickliness.

            "Another name," I whispered to her at three in the morning as she lay like a comma between my breasts.  "You need another name.  Bianca Alba Lazarus Miracle.  That's your new name.  Please live, tiny angel bunny.  Please?"

            And then my prayer became my grief, and my grief woke Middle Child.

            She sat up suddenly, her eyes huge.  "Is she--?  Did she--?  Why are you--?" 

            Middle Child's breath sounded wheezy.  She held the sides of her face.

            "Oh, no!  But I prayed!  Why didn't God--"     

            I stroked Bianca with my pinky.  "See how peaceful she looks?" I said.  "She's all better.  Not here.  But better."

            I slept until daybreak with Bianca on my chest and Middle Child between my legs.  She'd cried herself to sleep there.

            I got up from the couch and covered her.  I took Bianca into the basement and wrapped her in some Honey Bunny fluff and a scrap of fuchsia silk.  She looked like a Valentine, for a dead person.  I tucked her into a jelly jar and screwed the lid on. 

            "Rest in peace, my peewee darling." 

            I set the container on the washer and fished in the laundry pile for one of my husband's t-shirts.  I covered my face with it, blew my nose, and sobbed.

            After lunch we all wrote goodbye love notes to Bianca and slid them in the jar. 

            That evening, my husband and son laid Bianca Alba Lazarus Miracle to rest beneath the chestnut tree, beside the creek, with all our other beloved pets.

            "What did you say when you buried her?" I asked my husband when he came home.

            He wrapped me in his arms and spoke into my hair. 

            "I said, 'The Lord gave us eight bunnies, and the Lord took one away.  Blessed be the name of the Lord."

            I nodded and spoke with a stuffed up nose.  "That's good.  That's real good."

Buried Alive--A Love Story

I am Lazarus.  I am.  By a different name, but still.  See, I was done with this life.  Buried for all intents and purposes.  Swaddled in grave clothes and everything.  Let me tell you something about grave linens.  They wrap you snug as a bug in a rug, but then you can't really see, hear, taste, or feel much at all.

This one day, Jesus called out to me.  'Cept he didn't say, "Lazarus, come out."  He used my name instead.  And he whispered this other thing.  Real quiet like.  So no one could hear but me.

"Beloved."  He called me that.  "Believe."

I liked him a whole bunch by then, 'cause really, this was the second time he said my name.  Naw.  It was more than that.  How many days had I been alive by then?  It was at least that many.


There weren't a whole lotta people outside the cave grave when I emerged.   No one had hired professional mourners or anything.  Truth be told, not many folks even knew I was dead.  Guess they figured if I was breathing, that was enough.

I walked out, and Jesus took me in his arms.  He carefully, tenderly really, unwrapped the spiced linen strips.  Then he European air-kissed me, 'cept his lips, all puffy and wine-colored, pressed into my face.  Under both cheekbones.  At the same time.  His fingers caressed my chin as he looked into my eyes.  Actually, it was more like he fell into my gaze.

"Beloved."  He called me that.  "The king is enthralled with your beauty."

Right then and there my knees buckled, and I tell you what.  Someone shoulda taken a picture and put it on a romance novel 'cause what we had? What we've got?  It's a love story that'll transcend time.

Give and Take

Sometimes God gives you something you didn't even know you needed.  That's the way it was with Honey and--


"What do you mean you don't know where the kids are?"

Mom didn't look up from her crossword puzzle when I came in from having lunch with a friend.

"They said something about whiffleball," she said.  "Then a little while later, something about a white rabbit."

I stood on the deck and looked out at the spring drizzle.  I cupped my hands around my mouth.  "Kids!"

"Over here!"  Their voices came from the woods.  I followed the sound of whoops and hollers. 

"Come here, baby!"

"Missed it.  Missed it by a mile!"

"Don't be afraid.  We're nice." 

Thing one, two, and three darted here and there, trying to get close to the pale, zigzagging puffball.

"Mom! It's headed your way!  Get it!"

Coffee, white wine, and mineral water sloshed in my belly as I joined the chase.  Over logs, under cars, and into burrows the white rabbit went.  More than once I nearly fell as my feet slid around on my flipflops.  Finally, I held Mom's empty aqua trash can on its side, and the kids chased the rabbit into it. 

"Are you okay, Mom?" my son said.

I sat in the wet grass, wheezing and cradling my abdomen.  "Yeah.  Why?"

"Your face is a weird color."

It felt like my stomach was debating whether or not to give up my $30 French lunch.

"Can we keep it?" Oldest Child said.

"Ask Daddy."


"Mom!"

Middle Child came tearing up to the third floor. "A rat broke into the basement and mated Honey!"

I looked at the clock--6:30 a.m..

I squinted up at her. "Honey's a girl?"

"Honey's a mom!"

I rubbed my eyes and sat up. "Honey's a mom?"

"And they're gross. All pink and wiggly, like worms. Seven of 'em!"


I knelt on the cool, concrete floor. 

"Get me a tablespoon," I told my son.

A  minute later I felt the spoon's chill on my thigh.  I warmed it with my breath.  I opened the dog crate door and carefully scooped up the one lone pink ranger and relocated it on top of its siblings.  They were all snuggled in a pile, on a nest of silky soft, white bunny fur.

I turned to Oldest Child.  "Go upstairs and google 'raising baby rabbits,'" I said.  "See if it's okay to touch 'em."

Honey Bunny hunkered in the back of the crate.  I frowned.

"She's not keeping them warm.  Not nursing 'em or anything.  She isn't very good at this mommy thing."

"Maybe it's her first time," Middle Child said.

Oldest Child returned.  "A couple of websites say it's okay to touch them if the mother's tame."

I counted days on my fingers.  "We've had her eight days and she's never bit anyone.  That means she's tame, right?"

I reached in and stroked the baby I'd put on top of the pile.  I cooed.  It was  soft and warm, like the back of a child's neck.

The kids huddled around me. 

"That one's gonna have black spots," Middle Child said.  "And I bet that one's gonna be all white."

"Let's name 'em," my son said.  "The biggest one should be Goliath."

"And we'll call that tiny little guy, Gideon," I said.

"The one that keeps leaving the pack," Oldest Child said, "He's an adventurer.  Let's call him Indiana Jones.  Indy for short."

"We should call the one with black spots, Domino," Middle Child said.

It took us awhile to name the others.  One became Pogo a few weeks later when it learned how to leap into the air, way before the rest. 

"Name something that's all white," I said.

"Alaska," Oldest Child said.  "And Juno's the capital of Alaska.  Let's call that one Juno."

"But what about the smallest white one?"  Middle Child said.  "How do you say white in French, Mommy?"

"Je ne sais pas," I said.  "Bianca maybe?  Or is it Alba?"

"Bianca Alba," Middle Child said.  "She's my favorite.  She's little like me."


I went to the Exotic Jungle on account of Bianca Alba.

"Failure to thrive?" I said to the pre-vet salesgirl.  "Does that mean she's going to die?"

"Not necessarily," she said.  "Follow me."

She stopped in front of a display.  "I've raised tons of baby rabbits by hand," she said.  "You need kitten milk.  And one of these tiny bottles.  And some of this stuff." 

She handed me a package of three small metal tubes.  "In the wild, they'd eat their mom's scat to get the healthy organisms for their gut, but since she's not bonded with them, give 'em each a little squirt of this once a week."

We headed up to the cash register.  "She's not taking to them 'cause you touched them.  You shouldn't touch them while they're pink.  Gotta wait until they get their peach fuzz."

I whimpered.  "Aw man!  The web--"

She put her hand on my shoulder.  "Don't worry," she said.  "They'll be okay. I do this all the time."


A week into the baby bunny experience, I took matters into my own mommy hands.  I'd been spying on Honey.  Not once did I see her nurse those babies.  I even set my alarm clock for the middle of the night.  I snuck down to the basement and peeked into the crate.  No nursing. 

I pointed and hissed at Honey in the dark.  "Bad mommy!"

"The website says they usually only nurse between the hours of midnight and 5 a.m.," I told my husband the next morning.  "Sometimes only once in a 24 hour period.  Man!  Rabbits must have super mama milk.  Still, I haven't seen 'em--" 

My husband's eyes narrowed.

I tilted my head.  "What?"

"What are you up to?" he said.

"Nothing," I said.  That you need to know about. 


After school I called for the kids.  They followed me to the basement.

I pointed at them one by one.  "You, get a clean bath towel.  You, get Honey.  You, hold this strawberry basket while I get them and their fluff nest inside."

"What are we doing, Mom?" Oldest Child said.

"We're giving Honey lactation training."

I sat with my back against the dining room wall, the towel draped over my lap.

"Hand me Honey."

I stroked her and whispered gentle encouragement into her long, warm ears.

"It'll feel like a Shop Vac on your nipples at first, but don't worry.  You'll get used to it."

I flopped Honey on her back.  "Hand me two babies."

Each of the babies quickly located a teat.  They squirmed as they nursed, their back sides scooching left and right.  After ten minutes, the wiggling bodies relaxed.

"Switch!"

"They look like piranhas on her," my son said.  "Like the ones on the Discovery Channel.  Are they hurting her?"

"Naw!" I said.  "She's fine.  Nudge Bianca.  She's asleep on the breast.  She needs it most of all."

And that's how it went.  Twice a day, for weeks.  We bribed Honey with apples and carrots, and plantain leaves from the yard.  She ate non-stop while they nursed.  I reckon it was 'cause she was eating for eight.


The babies grew quickly.  In the beginning, my husband could hold all seven of them in his hands.  Not a week later.  At first, we couldn't see their poo at all.  Then it looked like a period at the end of a sentence.  Then it was as big as bee bees. 

When they were first born, their pink cotton swab ears seemed pinned to their heads.  Then later the ears got fuzzy and began to stand up.  Their fur was mostly white, like Honey's, but eventually, black and brown skin spots became black and brown fur. 

I loved to lay on the dining room floor when they were out.  They'd crawl all over me.  I called it Bunny Therapy.  I'd close my eyes and smile.    I never knew I wanted or needed bunnies, but thanks. 


Bianca Alba was still a concern.

"You have to stay with your brothers and sisters," I told her, as I held her an inch from my nose.  "They'll keep you warm."

I gave her extra nursings.  "Thrive, Baby Bianca.  Thrive."

I fed her kitten milk a couple times each day, putting the tiny dropper into her mouth and squeezing the rubber part.  I sighed as most of it ran down her chin and chest.

"Let's stay up with her tonight, Mommy," Middle Child said one afternoon. 

"To keep her warm and to feed her."

I nodded.  And to pray for her.  I had this bad feeling.

Middle Child lay on the love seat under her purple fuzzy blanket.  I sprawled on the sofa under a zebra-striped throw.  We took turns feeding Bianca and holding her on our chests.

"I'm giving you another name," I told Bianca at midnight.  "You're going to be Bianca Alba Lazarus 'cause Jesus is going to bring you back from death's door."

I wiped my eyes and sniffed.  'Cause I think that's where you're headed.

She was so wee.  She'd fit in a quarter cup measure.  Her fur wasn't sleek like the others'.  It was usually streaked with milk and sickliness.

"Another name, " I whispered to her at three in the morning as she lay like a comma between my breasts.  "You need another name.  Bianca Alba Lazarus Miracle.  That's your new name.  Please live, tiny angel bunny.  Please?"

And then my prayer became my grief, and my grief woke Middle Child.

She sat up suddenly, her eyes huge.  "Is she--?  Did she--?  Why are you--?" 

Middle Child's breath sounded wheezy.  She held the sides of her face.

"Oh no!  But I prayed!  Why didn't God--"

I stroked Bianca with my pinky.  "See how peaceful she looks?" I said.  "She's all better.  Not here.  But better."

I slept until daybreak with Bianca on my chest and Middle Child between my legs.  She'd cried herself to sleep there.

I got up from the couch and covered her.  I took Bianca into the basement and wrapped her in some Honey Bunny fluff and a scrap of fuschia silk.  She looked like a Valentine, for a dead person.  I tucked her into a jelly jar and screwed the lid on. 

"Rest in peace, my pee wee darling." 

I set the jelly jar on the washer and fished in the laundry pile for one of my husband's t-shirts.  I covered my face with it, blew my nose, and sobbed.


Later that day, we all wrote goodbye love notes to Bianca and slid them in the jar. 

That evening, my husband and son buried Bianca Alba Lazarus Miracle beneath the chestnut tree at the warehouse, with all our other beloved pets.

"What did you say when you buried her?" I asked my husband when he came home.

He put his arms around me and spoke into my hair. 

"I said, 'The Lord gave us eight bunnies, and the Lord took away one.  Blessed be the name of the Lord."

I nodded and spoke with a stuffed up nose.  "That's good.  That's real good."

Saving Booger Hole

Francis, the gentle giant, was going to feed a cute little mouse to a mean old tarantula and it was my job to make sure it didn't happen.

I'm not sure why Frank got a tarantula.  It's not like you can cuddle one or anything.  Frank named the spider, Legs, 'cause he liked ZZ Top.  The mouse was a BOGO item--buy a tarantula, get its first meal free.

I was walking through the common room on my dorm floor when someone made an announcement.  "Frank's gonna feed a mouse to his tarantula tonight.  Who wants to watch?"

That's all I had to hear.  I left a trail of my econ textbook, a spiral notebook, two Bic pens, my gloves and coat in the hall.  I flung open the door to Frank's room.  He lowered the beer bottle that was en route to his lips.  One corner of his mouth went up.  He didn't say it, but it seemed like he was expecting me.

I put my hands on my hips and glared at him and his red-headed roommate.  "Where's the mouse?"

The guys looked at each other, then back at me.  Frank used his beer bottle to point to the other side of the room.  I walked over and sat down at his desk.  I looked at the cardboard pet box.  I could see a half dozen fiber optic-looking whiskers sticking out of one of the air holes.  I touched them and they retracted.  Then a little eraser pink nose poked out, all quivery.  I held my pointer finger a half inch away for him or her to sniff.

I picked the box up and held it close to my heart.  I walked around to the red head's desk and perched on top of it.  "How much?"

Frank squinted.  "How much what?"

"How much for the mouse?"

Frank shrugged.  "I don't know," he said.  "That probably would have fed him for a good month."

"Crickets 'til the end of the year," I said.

Frank shook his head.  "What?"

"I'll buy your stupid tarantula a bag of crickets every week 'til the end of the year in exchange for this little guy."  I tapped the top of the box.

When he didn't answer, I balanced the mouse house on my lap and held out my hand.  "Deal?"

Frank looked at the ceiling for a minute, then he held his hand out.  "Deal."  He took his time giving me back my hand.


The next day, Frank and I rode the elevator to the ninth floor after lunch.

"You want a ride to the pet store?" he said, before he turned right and I turned left, off the elevator.

I looked up at him and wrinkled my nose.  "What for?"

"You know . . . mouse food . . . crickets?"

"Oh.  Yeah.  I guess I do.  Let me get some money."

My monthly money from Dad was running low so I got Booger Hole a turtle bowl instead of a Habitrail.  I didn't get food.  I'd just bring him stuff up from the dining hall.  I bought him a little blue bowl to drink water out of 'cause I couldn't figure out how to attach a water bottle to the turtle bowl.


I named the mouse, Booger Hole, 'cause one of my brothers had told me about a bluegrass band called Booger Hole Revival.  When you revive something, isn't it like snatching it from the jaws of death?  Like Jesus did Lazarus?

Booger Hole was a silky, charcoal-colored mouse, the size of my thumb.  I could tell he was a boy  'cause . . . well, I could tell.  Even though he was super cute, Booger Hole turned out to be a pain in my butt.  He was forever peeing in my sweatshirt pockets and getting out of his turtle bowl.  He didn't seem to realize or appreciate what I'd done for him . . .  the way I'd purchased his redemption and all.  I loved him anyway.

Booger Hole  figured out early on how to come and go.  Every morning he was inside his bowl,  but there were  always little chocolate jimmy-looking mouse presents all over my desk.  I started putting a textbook on top with a sliver of a gap for him to get air.  Each of my textbooks wound up with a crescent moon-shaped hole on the side opposite the spine.  I didn't get cash back for used books that semester. 


On about our fourth trip to the pet store, Frank turned to me at the stoplight right before the Mileground. 

He looked at my knees instead of my eyes.  "Legs was scared of Booger." 

I looked over at him and huffed.  "Are you serious?"

Frank bent forward to look up at the light to see if it had changed.  "Yeah.  I put Booger in with him and he ran to the other side of the tank."

I didn't say anything.

Frank cleared his throat.  "You don't have to keep buying crickets . . . if you don't want to."

I looked out my window and shook my head.  "No.  A deal's a deal."


And then I killed him . . . Booger Hole.  School was out for summer and Booger Hole and I went home to Huntington.

One night I had one too many at the Varsity Club, and I made a bad choice at 2 in the morning.  After I brushed my teeth, I got Booger Hole out to play on my bed.  I passed out and when I woke up,  I felt like the Princess and the Pea.  What is that lump under me?  The lump was Booger Hole . . . dead, but still warm. 

I held him in my hand and sobbed, trying to wash my guilt away with tears.  I stroked  his little body with my pointer finger.  All his important stuff was smooshed to one side.  Like when the loaf of bread gets crushed by the gallon of milk in your grocery bag.

I never did tell Francis, the gentle giant, that Booger Hole got killed by a sleeping giant--me.  Sometimes I wonder, which way would Booger Hole have preferred to die?  Death by hairy tarantula, or death by tipsy giant . . .