The Adventure’s of Snickers

Ten months ago, we moved to the Wheatbelt, where, after harvest, mice migrate to the big smoke. And once they reach town, it's like Love Island. They breed like it's 1999 and frolic (mostly drown) in the dog's water, trying to escape the heat.

They chewed skirting boards, old letters, and a black-and-white photograph of my Grandfather at medical school.

I set traps, but they weren't quick enough. They'd be well alive, crying out for someone stupid like me to disengage the trap and watch them drag their mutated limbs off into those glorious Wheatbelt sunsets.

Then, the cleaner found a small hole in our lounge. A nest of newborn mice, all huddled together, fast asleep.

She held up the vacuum and gave me a look, but all I could think of was Stuart Little.

I said, 'Leave it, I'll deal with them.'

I fucking dealt with them alright.

I put the armrest back over the nest and let them live in the warmth and security of our Italian lounge. Curled up in couch stuffing and confetti from letters my friends had written me in high school.

Days rolled into weeks.

Their eyes opened, their hair grew, and they all turned into real-life Stuart Littles. I even watched Mum come and go, returning with leftovers while I binged Netflix and protein bars.

One morning, they were all gone.

I dusted my hands and thought, 'faaaaaaark, glad that's sorted.'

One week later, a freak storm hit, and we found a baby under the drain pipe outside. He was barely alive, terrified of us but too sick to move.

I put him in a container, threw some cotton balls in an old Willy Wag-Tail nest and googled 'how to keep a baby mouse alive.'

We called him Snickers.

For days, he buried himself in cotton balls and didn't move. Eventually, I coaxed him out with a piece of Colby cheese and some water. I went to IGA, stocked up on food and prepared a smorgasbord of grated carrot, meat, parrot seed and lactose-free milk (mice are lactose intolerant).

It took weeks, but eventually, he was up and about.

He grew stronger as we edged closer to D-Day: our return trip to Broome. But Snickers had become reliant on me for food and scratches.

I asked Google about the social hierarchy of mice and releasing them back into the wild. Families turn on them when they smell of the rich life. So, I prayed for an intervention.

Three days before our flight, his nest was empty, which was sad but also a relief. I threw out his cotton balls, cleared the food, cleaned his bowls and hit the sack.

The next morning, he was back in his nest.

I checked Reddit to see if anyone had ever managed to pass through airport security with a mouse in their pocket. Dad was all for it, but Mum was like, 'What the actual fuck, Rebecca?'

It was unlikely, and I risked having to hand him over to airport security. I knew, coming from the country, that would be a disastrous outcome for Snickers.

So, I called customs and asked if Snickers could share a crate with our chihuahua. The answer was no.

So, I bought Snickers his own crate.

D-Day came, and it was time to leave Wongan Hills. Five of us crammed into Mum's small Subaru with four large suitcases. Austin had his legs skyward, our Au Pair had to hold the dog, and I nursed Snickers while Lizzie vomited in her car seat.

During the 2-hour journey, Austin started complaining cause he couldn't feel his legs. I turned to Carina, our Au Pair, and said, 'Why are you still with us?'

She laughed. Nervously. Poor girl spent months trying to get rid of them out of her chocolate drawer, and now she was smuggling one across the state.

At 10:30 am, we boarded Virgin flight VA1485 from Perth to Broome—and so did Snickers.

After landing and collecting our bags, we drove around to the pet collection centre. Snickers looked dead. The cabin pressure had fucked him. The baggage guy was stressed.

I said, 'All good, mate, I'll bring him back again.'

I brought him home, nursed him back to health with certified organic mouse food and bought him a mansion off TEMU. It had a sex swing, a castle, exercise gear, and a luxury hamster bed. I also added greenery.

It looked like somewhere James Bond would live.

But at night, I'd lie awake, haunted by his loneliness. He deserved a mate—someone to share his sex swing.

Three weeks ago, his house looked untouched. His water? Untouched. Two certified organic food logs sat in the same spot for over a week, and there was no sign of Snickers. The grate in the lid was small, but he was agile enough to manoeuvre through it.

Our Au Pair pulled me aside one night and said, 'I think there's a mouse in my bedside drawer.' She held up her most recent packet of Cadbury Marvelous Creations.

They were gone.

I told Mirai to get rid of all the food in her room, but she was terrified and asked me to do it. There was chocolate, Japanese flavour sachets, MSG, spices, and sauces.

Disneyland for mice.

Snickers had struck gold. And it wasn't organic.

I cleared the room, and Mirai asked me to use eucalyptus oil to repel him, so I put some in a spray bottle and showered her room.

Snickers gave zero fucks.

I was watching Couples Therapy on SBS when I saw him — bold as ever — run from Mirai's room into the lounge and behind the TV. Mirai was on holidays in Kununurra, and Snickers was living his best life.

I took a photo that day — the day I got rid of his pad. It was a bit emotional. His home looked like something off that Netflix series 'Abandoned Cities'.

But he survived it all. Vacuum cleaners, dogs, traps, wild storms, cabin pressure, a move from one end of the state to the other, and he hit the jackpot.

Snickers was free.

The smallest creature can slip through the smallest crack and into the biggest destiny.