Fifi Daisy Ninjamouse

Spring of 2007 we had a snake named Wesson, and we were living with TB's father and step-mom and littlest sister. My FIL and Little SIL are deathly afraid of snakes, so when Wesson went missing we searched high and low and didn't tell anyone that he was gone. Wesson left behind what was to be his meal, a white feeder mouse that cost a dollar. Although he had tried to eat her, even going as far to grab her and coil around her body, she used her ninja powers and escaped death. We decided that any mouse that can ninja out of a certain munching should be allowed to live, and we bought her a cage. For a few months she lived in the garage in a cage, a cage that she was capable of popping out of at any time.

We would find little clues (I'd rather call them clues than mouse shit) that told us where the mouse was going in the garage, but she always came back to her cage. I assumed that one day she would be gone, living in the wilds of suburbia. When week after week passed and still the little ninja mouse remained we named her Fifi Daisy Ninjamouse. Chicken preferred Daisy, I preferred Fifi, and we all agreed on Ninjamouse. Eventually we bought her a nice cage, and when we left my FIL's house she came with us.

Fifi Daisy Ninjamouse was a badass motherfucker. When a cat would bat at the cage she would push out her chest as if to say, "Fuck you, you stupid fucking cat. I survived the coils of a snake and I can kick your balloon-knot ass." During cage cleanings she would go into her ball, rolling around the house. Frequently she would knock the door to her ball open and run out, cats quick behind her. Reina caught her more than once, and we had to pry Fifi out of her mouth. Fifi would turn back, glare at Reina and flip her the bird. Or at least that's what it looked like to me.

In the last month Fifi went from super plump to sadly skinny. She stopped the incessant running on her wheel. I knew that her time was near. We were out of small animal bedding and I just knew that the instant we bought bedding and cleaned her cage she would die. On Sunday we bought bedding, and Chicken put her in the clear ball. She just sat there, not moving. I pulled her out of the ball, and held her in my hand as Chicken continued to clean. She gasped for each breathe, curled up in my hand and shook. Poor girl.

I told Chicken to say his goodbyes, I told TB that the end was near. I held her, talked to her, told her that it was okay and she was safe. Thirty minutes later, she died in my hand. Fifi wasn't a cuddly pet, she didn't do any tricks, but she was a ninja and we loved her. She could have left her cage and walked away at any time, but she chose to stay with us. Goodbye Dear Friend!