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Thunderfoot and the Great Mouse Infestation Cappy Hanson Creative Writing Celebration, Memoir, 1st Place It was a sunny May afternoon in the valley north of Santa Fe, New Mexico. At last, the Southwest spring gales that had shimmied the Siberian elms and cottonwoods for weeks had calmed. I walked through my mobile home, opening all the windows for the first time since the previous autumn. My South American parrots, Peaches and Maggie, had flown to the dining room curtain rod and were grooming each other. From there, they could also engage in squawky conversations with the wild birds. The parrots were larger than the sparrows and finches, smaller than the mouming doves, and noisier than any of them. The last window I opened was in my office. The air was pungent with lilac. I settled at my desk, pleased at the prospect of an uninterrupted hour to work on a new poem. Before I could finish experimenting with the line breaks in the first stanza, Peaches and Maggie broke the quiet with terrified screeches. My head snapped up. All thought of line length, enjambment, and other esoteric issues vaporized. Despite the urgency of the parrots’ cries, I made myself take a deep breath. I let it out slowly and shook my head before pushing myself out of the chair. I knew what the parrots were raising a ruckus about. It was a mouse. Probably not just any mouse, either. It was likely to be Thunderfoot. Again. Thunderfoot was part of the Great Mouse Infestation of 1997. It had begun the month before, when a pair of mice had built a nest in the cinder-block footing for one of the awning supports in front of the house. Virginia creeper vined in and out of the block, making a secure and charming rodent haven. Once the baby mice opened their eyes at around two weeks of age, they joined their parents on the walkway, where I scattered seed for the wild birds. Adult mice and youngsters alike were shy at first. A goldfinch taking off would send them darting for cover. 58
