My Green Grass

I've always been a "Gah! The grass is greener over there!," kind of person.

For as long as I can remember, I have always wanted to be where I wasn't. I remember many Christmas vacation holidays of being with family down in Ephraim and wishing I was with friends in Salt Lake. And yet, there have been very stressful times throughout school that I've wanted to escape to the quiet of Sanpete county and open arms of loving grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles. I've also spent loads of time replaying the footage of my past in my mind or trying to paint pictures of my future rather than reveling in the surroundings of my present.

One of my classic battles with the "grass-is-greener syndrome" has been Salt Lake verses Logan. While living in Salt Lake my freshman year at the U, all I wanted was to get out and get to Logan. Even my Salt Lake heart spots like Sam Wellers, The Main Library, Temple Square, the Gateway, the cathedral, Edinburgh Castle, Trax, my view of the valley, and the U's campus in general didn't hold a candle to the seemingly perfect, sparkly and shiny, and oh-so-friendly Logan. So, I up and moved!

Almost a month ago, I caught myself doing it again, but this time in reverse. I found out at the last minute that February 4th, 2011 would present Natalie's last home swim meet (against BYU of all opponents), so I hastily made the necessary arrangements for a ride down. (By the way, she was amazing. Always has been, still is, and always will be I'm sure.) As my room mate Kirsten and I drove through Salt Lake City on our way up to the U that night, my spirits lifted in a way I haven't felt in a long time--I was as giddy as a little kid in Disneyland. As I walked towards the swim meet and gazed at the Huntsman Center, the medical towers, gymnastics building, and the distant giant of a psychology building all resting in the shadow of the Fort Douglas pedestrian bridge, that creepy "grass-is-greener" illness awoke inside me again. "Why the heck did I transfer? This school kicks Logan's trash! What have I done?? Moving was the biggest mistake of my life!" And then after the meet and dinner at Red Robin's with Nat and her awesome padres, more feelings and thoughts kept coming as we drove through Sugar House: "This place is so quaint! I wonder how much trouble it would be to re-transfer... Natalie is so lucky! WHY DID I MOVE? How soon can I move back here?"

Ridiculous, right? Well, I've had enough.

In an effort to combat "grass is greener where I am not" I have decided to blog about the green grass around me in my life right now--the things I love about living in Logan. Sure, there is green grass elsewhere. But, I am where I am, and for now since there's nothing I can do to change it I will embrace it. Besides, right now isn't so bad :)

I've decided to start out with the valley itself and work my way in. Have you seen Cache Valley when there's no smog? It's gorgeous. I love it! The picture of winter version was taken from my living room last year.

Logan Canyon is stellar (and Sardine, Green, and Dry Canyons as well) , especially in the fall. My two favorite hikes in Logan Canyon are Crimson and Juniper. I love going for canyon drives to get out of the smog and away from school for a bit. My room mate Katie and I sometimes drive up there and park next to the river and just walk along it for a ways. Love it.

Yes, the University of Utah is in many ways superior to Utah State University. But hey, it's not all bad. I should try and brag about its claims to fame (more experiments in space than other schools, etc), but to me it's not worth the stretch. I'm just grateful that I have the opportunity to be "educated" at a decent public university. Utah State's been good to me as far as employment goes as well, which has been a blessing.

I love Old Main. Always have. Very few pictures do it justice. I get to climb its hill every other morning to get to school, and its historic glory makes the hike much more epic and enjoyable. I'm a sucker for old buildings with interesting architecture I appreciate, so Old Main and the others on the quad never cease to delight me.

This is how I get around Logan while without the luxury of an automobile. The best part about it? It's fare-free. In a valley prone to astronomical smog levels and increasing unemployment rates, the Cache Valley Transit District is an economic and environmental beacon of hope.

Meet Professors Mike (top), and Corey (bottom) Christiansen. Together as father and son, they comprise Utah State's Guitar Studies Faculty. I've had the privilege to take guitar classes from each of them (Beginning Group Guitar, and Blues Guitar). Mike and Corey are hilarious, and super cool. Mike used to tour with the Eagles, and Corey has played with John Mayer. Their concerts are fantastic. Cache Valley is very lucky to have them here as locals.

It's time for food! I've never actually eaten at the Tandoori Oven, but I plan to someday. I put it up here because I enjoy eating at it's sister restaurant the Indian Oven, but I couldn't find a picture of the Indian online. I'm sure it's not the best Indian food in the world, but it's one of the best places that Logan has to offer in my opinion.

Now, the Bluebird's food is not my very favorite. However, it's historic and very quaint. I enjoy eating here with my family if nothing else than for the sake of tradition. I love its soda bar and chocolate counter at the front. I love how old it is.

This is a cool little cafe called Citrus and Sage. Inside you will find a FANTASTIC crepery--their crepes may seem a bit pricey, but they are worth every penny.Citrus and Sage is also home to numerous jam sessions for Utah State Jazz faculty and students and other musicians as well, which I am a fan of attending.

Charlie's made the blog because of their $2 Large 'Flavor of the Month' shake. It has yet to disappoint me. I love soft serve and icecream, so I love going to Charlie's.

Logan's castle-like temple never ceases to attract my gaze.

Reasons why I love Logan's Tabernacle: It houses a beautiful yet ridiculously out of tune organ; It hosts Logan's Summer Fest on its grounds each year; and, it's blessed me with sweet memories of sweaty and cramped but nonetheless inspiring stake conferences and playing festive Christmas concerts with the Cache Symphony Orchestra. Please forgive my (most likely) incorrect punctuation usage. It's a blog--anything goes.

I've been lucky to have good room mates each year that I've lived in Logan. I wish I had pictures of all of them to post, but I only have good ones from last year. Currently, it's down to we three at the bottom: Katie, me, and Kirsten. But, we still manage to find fun and merriment every now and again. I also posted the picture on the bottom because of another thing I love about Logan: its annual, community-built "Pumpkin Walk."

A quick essay

If you are reading this, then chances are that you know me and you know how I have struggled with my writing in the past. Not struggled so much with the actual writing as much as believing that I can. I typed up a quick essay today along the lines of my "Writing Autobiography" for an insignificant class assignment and thought I'd share it here since I have produced a serious lack of posts in recent years. Enjoy.

Writing has always been a subject of insecurity for me. For years I walked around believing that I could not write well at all. This probably stemmed from me being somewhat of a perfectionist, which has never blended well with the subjective nature of writing. It is impossible for me to cover all of the events and happenstances that brought me to being the writer I am today in the confines of a 2 page, double-spaced paper. As such, I will try to focus on the highlights of my history with writing.

Elementary and middle school found me hardly thinking about my writing at all, that I can remember. I did not write much outside of school, and the writing assignments I was given were much like math equations: I simply filled in the blanks the teacher provided with a few adjectives of my choosing. I was good at regurgitating what my teachers gave me and wanted to hear. I was praised for being a fine writer, and I felt that my abilities were more than sufficient for the tasks given me.

Unfortunately, my anxiety manifested itself strongly in high school. Mr. Stan Banks, my sophomore English teacher, told me more than once that my writing was “superficial.” My essays never delighted him as my work had for previous teachers. That was crushing! However, the pinnacle of my self-doubt came during my senior year in Mr. Dave Davis's AP Literature class. For a poet essay assignment, my essay began:

“Towards the beginning of Jim Henson's The Muppet’s Christmas Carol, Rizzo the Rat exclaims to Gonzo, 'Charles Dickens was a nineteenth century novelist! A genius!' William Butler Yeats, though not a novelist, was another late-nineteenth century genius. Better known for his poetry, Yeats often wrote about the nature he associated with in Ireland.”

I thought this portion of the introduction to be original and humorous. I had discussed with him beforehand the importance of not just writing what is expected but being creative with it and making it your own. I thought he would be delighted to read something a little different in his stack of papers that would virtually all say the same thing. How wrong I was! After some snooping around, I discovered that I had received the lowest grade on that assignment of all the students from his three AP Lit classes (including one who had lost a significant amount of points for no other reason than turning the essay in late). Apparently, Mr. Davis did not think I could write. His opinion meant a lot to me for some reason, so I took that belief to heart.

Mr. Davis's grading and comments had hurt me deeply, causing even greater anxiety and stress in the face of writing than I had had before. Thankfully, however, I had friends and mentors that worked with my self-cynicism to try and help me see that there were admirable qualities to my writing. Blogging was a popular activity amongst us at the time, and they encouraged me to keep a blog going. Though I believed that I was not a good writer, I liked to blog. With every post, I was boosted with compliments. From their enjoyment, I began to see that my writing strengths resided in my voice, clear organization, and simple clarity.

In college, virtually all of my professors who have read my writing have made it clear to me that they see those strengths as well. They have also helped me to work on my weaknesses, such as beefing up “superficial” passages. I have tried to take their opinions and criticisms to heart rather than those of Mr. Davis and Mr. Banks. No writer is perfect, but I believe that everyone can improve. The perfectionist in me will never be content with not having a perfect paper, and will continue to feel a bit insecure with any writing I produce. However, I am grateful for the mistakes and turns I made in the past and for the supporters that helped me to improve and be the writer I am today.

An unexpected ray during my dark day

Sam's stomach was bothering him. It was probably from the sandwich that fortune allowed him to stumble upon after it had fallen out of a garbage sack while being poured into a dumpster behind the South Towne Mall. It wasn't spoilage that was hurting his gut--the food by some miracle was completely intact, and still warm when he picked it up. What had upset him was actually having substance inside him--eating wasn't something his body was completely used to.

A gurgle creeped out from beneath his coat to accompany the pain he was feeling. "I know. I know. I'm sorry!" he said aloud. "At least I'm still alive. We're lucky we've made it to see 2008. You try saying no to free food sometime! See how you like it."

People around Sam didn't pay him much notice as he continued to talk to his stomach at the end of the platform. He was obviously homeless, which meant he was probably half-crazy anyway. Sam didn't really notice them either. The business men in suits scowling at their phones, the punks scooting along with skateboards and sagging pants, the mother watching over her three young bundled children, the university students with their iPods and backpacks, and the fast food employee with the shifty eyes made up a group not unlike any other he'd waited with at the end of the line to go to Salt Lake. This was just part of his daily scene. Some people go to work, get a paycheck, and pay the gas bill to keep warm in the winter. Sam rode Trax.

After his stomach had heard enough, Sam leaned against a pole and gazed out at the southern end of the Salt Lake Valley. It was a pretty scene to behold--the sun was setting, and the air was clear after the previous night's snowstorm. He could see the copper mine on the other side of the valley, and the funny looking building the mother had pointed out to her children as being the "temple" about halfway in between.

Thankfully, the faint sound of an electronic bell came through the air and the metal tracks at the station began to hum, signaling the awaiting passengers that a train was approaching. Sam knew that within seconds he'd have a warm place to sit down. He set his focus on a certain point on the tracks he predicted the train would stop upon--he was 4 for 5 that day with this little game he liked to play. The front of the train crawled past it, but the first set of doors landed directly before him, so he decided that would count.

Normally Sam was aware of those around him only enough to ensure that he didn't walk into or sit on someone. This meant lots of staring at the ground. The doors to the train opened, and Sam watched as lots of snow boots and various other shoes he didn't know the names of came on to the platform. Then came a break in the shoe parade, so Sam thought he was clear to ascend the stairs and get on the train. But before he could, a pair of red-plaid Converse's entered his view.

These shoes belonged to a 19 year old freshman student in her second semester at the University of Utah. She was on the tallish-end height-wise for her age and gender, even with her flat-bottomed shoes. Her hair was what some call curly, but she liked to describe as "tight-waved." On her back, she carried a bulging red backpack full of school books she knew she wouldn't read but decided to tote along anyway. Only a loose black pea coat and plaid felt scarf protected her from the cold.

This girl was running away from school like she did almost every week. Though she didn't much like being home, it was better than being alone in her dorm room. Alone--true or not, that was a word that she felt in more ways than just physical. She was having a hard time. Her best friend was miles and miles away. Though they did an excellent job of keeping touch, things were changing, and just weren't the same anymore. The school she attended made her feel small and insignificant, especially since she was major-less. Her security blanket of friends from high school had been ripped off, and she felt unprepared for such exposure to real life.

This girl was also feeling a non-existant pressure from her society to be dating and pursuing marriage, as many girls her age in Utah do. It seemed that everyone around her was doing a fine job at this, except for her. This ill-conceived perception was only fortified each time one of her high school friends or associates changed their facebook status to "in a relationship." Some of them had even changed to engaged! And here she was never even having been on a real date. So, daily thoughts of wondering whether she was in someway defective began to creep into her mind. She was legitimately and unknowingly becoming depressed.

Sam looked up into the eyes of this girl with the plaid shoes as she exited the train. They seemed sad, and he expected them look away as if they had been offended by his homeless appearance. However, to his surprise, the ends of her lips curved up into a smile. It was contagious, and he grinned back as she passed. Suddenly, the pain of his stomach changed to that same feeling he got every time someone stopped and gave him money on the street, or put food on his plate at the homeless shelter. Before stepping aboard, he turned and called out,

"Hey!"

The girl took a few steps, pretending that she hadn't heard him. It hadn't hurt to smile at the man, but she didn't want to risk a conversation in case he was going to ask for money. Not wanting to hurt his feelings though, and wondering whether she had dropped something forced her to turn around. Again, Sam was surprised. He wasn't sure why he had called out like that, and didn't know what to say. Then suddenly...

"You know? You're really pretty. If I were a younger man, I'd ask you out on a date."

The train was beeping at him to get out of the doorway so the doors could close, so he turned back to the stairs and climbed onto the train. At the far end, he noticed that his favorite handicapped seats with more leg-room were vacant, so he moved as quickly as possible to claim them as his.

The girl he'd just complimented stood stunned on the platform for a few seconds. She couldn't believe it! There was no way that man could have known that only a few minutes previous she'd been gazing out the train window, feeling quite worthless after a train-ride of comparing herself to her pretty friends and relatives. And yet, he, a homeless man, had the words she needed to hear in the moment that she needed it most. Before going on her way, she looked up with tears in her eyes at the sky and said to an unseen being,

"Coincidence or not, thank you."

60 Seconds of Magic

I think this day was predestined to be special. As such, it proved worthy of a post.

For some reason, I was able to get up early this morning. 6:50 am. I was up before any of my room mates, actually. This led to me being able to take a shower before anything in my day went down. If only you knew how crazy all of this is. I never shower in the morning--ever. I never get up on time! Even if I've had plenty of sleep the night before (like I did last night), sleeping in just takes its natural course everyday. If sleeping in were an olympic event, I'd be a gold medalist.

8:50 found me showered, makeup'd (miraculous, I know), and dressed. My bed was made (what the?), my schedule for the day planned out on paper, my notes for classes that day reviewed, and my bookbag packed and ready to go. Breakfast would have been consumed at this point, but I'm currently out of food, so all I ate was a measely (which, according to dictionary.com is not a word. You know what I mean.) piece of toast. Classes for the day started at 9:30, so I decided to head over to the bookstore and pick up a manual for Communicable Disease Control , and a notebook for Institute.

This is where things took a nifty turn. While browsing around the bookstore for the most suitable notebook (I'm picky when it comes to these things. It's got to be sturdy, but nothing fancy. Thickish. Preferably smaller than standard size notebooks. Color? Irrelevant.) a voice came over the speakers in the store. "Attention Book Store customers. It is now 9:09 on September 9th in the year 2009. In honor of this special occasion, the first nine customers to purchase at the front will receive a token for a free scoop of icecream! Enjoy!" That announcement alone lifted my already perky spirits. I looked around the store to see if I had a shot at this opportunity for free icecream. I most certainly did. At the checkout counter, I was given the promised token for being the third person to buy something at 9:09. So cool.

The rest of the day proved to be out of the ordinary, and most enjoyable. I stayed awake in each of my lectures, and found them to be interesting and study-provoking. At work, I had tasks to do and was given more to do. I know that sounds strange, but at the lab sometimes you're up to your neck in dirt to work on, and other times there's nothing to do. I need money--bring on the work. At orchestra tonight, aside from playing gorgeous Ralph Vaughn Williams, I was given the opportunity to put my name on a list of private teachers interested in taking on students for music lessons. Maybe something will come of that! Who knows. The greatness continued even then. When I came home from orchestra, my room mates had saved me some fixings from their homemade pizza feast. The pizza was delicious.

9/9/09 will never come again. I'm glad that I was here to see it. The magic sixty seconds of 9:09 only came twice today. I'm looking forward to see if October 10th of next year will be special too. Oh, and by the way, I didn't use up my icecream token today. Since ice cream makes everything better, I think I'll save it for a day with less character, like September 18th, that might end up being a not-so-good day.

The Anxieties of One Naturally Inclined to be Antisocial

Nearly every Friday night, the LDS Institute in Logan puts on an activity of some sort. While all are invited to attend, they don't tend to attract the large crowds that they could. To be fair, you could say that some are more successful than others, but for the most part, they get a small turn out. Then again, what is your definition of small?

Last Friday, I was telling my room mate Eden about the crowd that these activities tend to attract. From my own harsh personal observation, I informed her that you'll always get a few geeky boys that show up right on time who are obviously girlfriend (and quite possibly friend)-less and are hoping that the night will introduce them to their eternal companion. It seems like they force themselves to go for this reason, not because they're just looking for a good time. They've no other options, and nothing better to do. Then, as the night goes on, the crowd that joins them isn't much better according to social standards. Man, I'm brutal. I apologize. As you'll see if you keep reading, I've no room to talk.

In any event, she was intrigued, and wanted to go over and have a look at these creatures. I didn't have any objections, and so we went over right as it started at 8 o'clock. Like a knife would fly to a magnet, I was immediately pulled into the gym upon entering the building when I heard a live jazz combo playing for the activity. I'm not sure why they were there, because the activity was advertised as a "MexicanFiesta", not "Big Band Dancing."

Just as I had promised her, there were two couples dancing on the floor, and about three guys standing off to the side. There was one boy in particular that I pointed out to her as being a prime example of these socially-challenged specimen. Gah! I'm terrible! Somebody please stop me.

Done. Before I could go on in my judgmental ways, this boy made a B-line for us, and asked me to dance. It wasn't a question though, for before I could answer he had taken my hand and dragged me out to the middle of the gym. What followed was one of the most humbling, embarassing, and yet hilarious moments of my life. And sadly, only three guys and Eden were there to see it.

I had no idea how to dance with this kid. He didn't say a word to me the whole time.
"What's your name?"
Silence.
"Uh..what am I supposed to do?"
Silence.
(I collide with him as he tries to spin around me or something)
"Oh! My bad! I'm sorry, I'm really bad at this."
Not even a smile.
(I continue to fail at trying to be smooth about this)
No reaction.

It was awful, but everytime I looked over and saw the look on Eden's face, I had to laugh at myself. Even still, this kid had not showered in who knows when, and so I looked over at the band with a look of "Please. Just stop playing." By some miracle, it worked. The last note came, and I left.

This would be a good place to end, wouldn't it? Well, too bad. The point of this post has not been presented yet. We're getting there though, I promise.

Being Friday as it was, and finding myself alone back at the apartment, I actually wandered back to the institute building. The Jazz music was pretty good, and I wanted to hear more of it. That was all I wanted though. It's funny- I often complain about being alone even when I am surrounded by others. Here was my chance to meet people even though I was alone for the chance to make friends and avoid loneliness in the future. And yet, I didn't want to talk to anybody. I wanted to get lost in the music, and not be bothered with random, 'Would you like to dance?'s and subsequent small talk. I was terrified at the thought of such things. (For those of you who know me, my dance anxiety had very much kicked in at this point.)

So, my question now was how do I listen and watch the music without having to talk to anybody? We saw how well being a wall-flower had worked out for me with Eden. To my relief, I snooped around and found a little curtained room up above the gym and stage. You can see everything going on down below and not be noticed if you peer through those curtains. So, I ran to the snack table, hoarded as many chips with salsa (Ah. We now see why it was advertised as Mexican Fiesta. Clever, eh?) and trailmix as I could carry, and ran up to my secret spot to enjoy the show by myself. I did embark on a few dangerous missions back to the snack table for lemonade and refills, but I slipped back and forth almost unnoticed.

I spent the next two hours overlooking local musicians, watching people having fun and dancing, and eating chips and salsa like there was no tomorrow. During the intermission, I did go down to compliment the band and request that they play Blue Bossa (which took them by surprise. Blue Bossa? Who would request that? A jazz major. They were afraid of that. But that's a post for another day.)

As the activity drew closer to ending, I couldn't take it anymore. You may think, based on my behavior that I've told you about, that I don't like being around people. That I enjoy being alone, and antisocial. That couldn't be farther from the truth. I hate it. I long to be outgoing and friendly. I yearned for someone or ones to be with and dance with. For some reason, there is a barrier there that I can not seem to master. I chicken out everytime. You'd think that chickening out would be the more comfortable route, but it's not at all. It's kind of like an endothermic reaction requiring a high activation energy: Before the reaction occurs, you're at a state that's lower than where you want to end up, but there's a huge hump to get over that requires a lot of energy to spark. Very rarely can I get over that hump, so I stay down low in the dumps instead. That, world, is why Brittany has a hard time with dances.

As I said, I couldn't take it anymore. I had to dance. But I couldn't go down to the gym! I couldn't dance there alone, but dancing with someone was impossible for me too. So, looking about me and finding a dark room occupied by no one but me and old chairs and risers just taking up space, I began to dance. It was great because no one could see me- not even me because it was dark. I danced, and I danced. I even pretended that I was dancing with someone else. Ridiculous? Pathetic? Perhaps so.

I learned something about myself that night. I'm no better off then those boys who show up to activities right on time. I don't even go, and it's not because I'm doing other things with other people. I have no one to go with, and I'm too afraid to go by myself. If I did have someone to go with, that would mean I would have a friend and I'm sure that if that happened, going to the institute activity wouldn't be on the agenda. At least those other guys/people try. They have more than I have, and I of all people have no room to judge them.

Timmy Willy Part 2: Pictures

Here are the pictures that I have of the late Timmy Willy. I will stop gushing over him after this post, I promise. It was his little rear end that had all the cuts and scratches and neosporin on it.

He was a cutie- no getting around the matter.

Here I tried to get his cute little face. He tried to sleep, but I don't think he could get much shut-eye because he was in so much pain.

The Tale of the Late Timmy Willy

This is not a picture of my hand or Timmy Willy. I only have pictures of him on my phone, and the phone will not let me send picture messages to my email address right now for some reason. Timmy was a brown fancy mouse, so really the only thing this picture portrays that's relevant to my story is the fact that Timmy was tiny just like this white one. Actually, he may have been smaller.

A couple of days ago, I went to Petsmart to see if they had any bunnies or chicks for Easter (which, by the way, they did not.) While looking at the rodents there, I noticed an adorable tiny brown fancy mouse. He was smaller then the other mice in his cage, and had a perfect fluffy coat and tiny mouse features. While being endeared, a bigger mouse came over and attacked the tiny brown one. It was horrible! The brute chased him around and kept biting his little tail and hind legs. The brown cotton ball tried to fight back with bites and such, but it didn't appear to do him much good. Some sort of "save the helpless creature" instinct of mine kicked in as soon as I saw he was bleeding, and I knew that even though I can not keep pets in my apartment, I needed to take him home to save him from dying.

The mean black and white mice continued to pick on my mouse as I waited for an attendant to come and rescue him. While it wasn't my first pick, he received the name Timmy Willy during the wait. When the Petsmart employee finally arrived, she looked at Timmy and recommened I take another brown mouse home since he was pretty beat up. She said something about how she meant to separate him from the others for a few days so he could heal, which I recognized as being code to the customers that he was going to die. But I didn't care. I'd become too attached after naming him and all to let him die in Petsmart. Since he was so mangled, she adopted him out free of purchase. It was a fun feeling to walk out of the store holding a little box with holes in it in one hand and a little bag of mouse food in my backpack.

The whole bus ride home was spent pondering where I would house Timmy. I decided to keep him in a plastic drawer from my room that seemed deep enough to keep him from getting loose. However, after holding and watching him for a few minutes, it became apparent that the plastic drawer would not be needed, because Timmy was very still. He didn't move around much. Even though it had me worried, it was kind of nice to be able to hold him without him squirming all about. I spent the next several hours in the apartment of a friend who didn't have roommates so we could keep Timmy a secret. We watched over Timmy the whole time. We heated some soy milk for him, and tried to help him drink some water too. He drank a little bit, but not much. He also didn't eat anything. While it was nice not having him poop at all, him not eating was sad to see because it accentuated his poor health.

I ended up sleeping over because I didn't want to leave him. The Petsmart lady told us to rub some Neosporin on his wounds to help them heal. We did so, using a Q-tip to be gentle. I think that Timmy was infected, because he didn't smell very good even for a male mouse. It was wonderful to hold him. If I put him on my stomach while laying down, he would crawl up and tuck himself under my chin, or between my neck and shoulder. His whiskers and tiny paws tickled. We didn't want to sleep with him since we might squish him and...sleeping with a mouse would be kind of gross, so we put him in a small box padded with tissue paper and placed it on the night stand next to her bed. I got up to check on him a few times during the night, given a bit of hope everytime I saw his heart still beating.

Timmy died sometime between 3:30 and 7:30 in the morning. When we woke up, he was on his back, stiff, legs in the air, and tiny teeth poking out of his mouth. It was a sad day. I miss the little bugger. He was darling, and seemed so sweet and docile because he was sick. It was a lot of fun to just watch him crawl around or close his eyes upon being petted. I have a new respect for rodents. They're not the ideal pets, but definitely have some perks. I'm glad that Timmy was able to die away from the other mice that caused his death in the first place.