Several years ago, our neighborhood was attacked by a plague
of mice. They were everywhere. We saw them in the cupboards,
under the buildings, scurrying from place to place. Every
morning I would find that the mice had made a sandbox on my
kitchen floor.
The first person to discover that we had a problem was my
teenage daughter. One Friday morning, she opened a kitchen
drawer and spied "an enormous cockroach with a tail." I was
standing next to the stove when she jumped into my arms. We
were lucky that some chulent remained...
Some people thought that the root of the problem lay in the
fact that the gas company had just dug up all the pipes in
the neighborhood. Others thought it was from the fact that
somehow, the cat population seemed to have diminished to
almost nil. I don't know. But the mice were everywhere.
They didn't seem to appreciate the baits which I so patiently
prepared for them. We tried everything. Bread, fresh and
stale, white cheese, cottage cheese and even hard yellow
cheese, a luxury item that we try not to buy. I even tried
sardines smeared with jelly. The mice seemed to enjoy the
items in the cupboard over the servings set out for them,
those ungrateful devils. I even tried setting the baits with
gloved hands so they would not be bothered by that horrible
human smell, which, for some reason, did not appear to
disturb them when they ate our fresh bread or leftover cake!
It seemed that the mice had gotten the upper hand.
Finally, in desperation, I called the Jerusalem
Municipality's veterinarian service. Surely this was their
domain. After being sent from one office to another, I found
myself speaking to the man in charge of the rodent population
of Jerusalem. I pleaded my case most eloquently, in the most
desperate terms possible. He was sympathetic but had no real
solution to the problem.
When we had first moved into our new neighborhood, close to
twenty years before, there were absolutely no cats to be
seen. "What a pleasure," I thought to myself, as I threw the
trash in the building's container without worry of a black
beast jumping out at me. Then one day a huge truck pulled up
behind our building and the cat, or rather, cats, were let
out of the bag. I was quite indignant, and ran to the truck
driver, demanding to know what in the world he was doing. He
quietly extolled the virtues of the stray cat in simple
Hebrew to the uninitiated American and explained that without
them, the rodent and snake population of our neighborhood
would be out of hand. It certainly made sense and I, for one,
would much rather contend with stray cats, who do have some
charm of their own, as compared to mice, or, Heaven save us,
SNAKES!
Now, in my innocence, I asked the man in the veterinarian
department of the Jerusaelm municipality if it would be
possible to replenish the cat population of our neighborhood.
Silence, and then an explosion of laughter. Once again,
silence, and background laughter from the other members of
the office.
"Geveret," he chortled, "THAT is a solution from the
time of the Byzantines." What short memories city departments
had, I thought to myself. He was nice enough to suggest a
home-recipe bait that mice would certainly not resist. Bread
fried in oil and garlic. And so, every night I made supper
for my husband, supper for my children, and supper for the
mice. For some reason, everyone hailed this change in diet --
except for the mice.
At this point, I had decided to make truce with the
situation. Peace we would never have. Guests were forewarned
and some brave ones even remained. I attempted to put on a
brave front and only rarely found myself standing on a
kitchen chair, clutching my heart. Upon meeting friends at
the local grocery, I would discuss the situation; some people
even kvelled about their adorable little pets. [Mickey
and Minnie?]
One afternoon, while talking to a high school friend on the
phone, a mouse suddenly ran between my legs and disappeared
under the stove. I screamed. "Oh-oh! There's only one thing
which could cause a woman to scream like that in the middle
of a phone conversation. You must have seen a mouse! Well, I
have the perfect remedy," my friend wisely advised. I rolled
my eyes, thinking of what new delicacies I would be preparing
for my little houseguests, but continued to listen.
"Donate some money to your local community tzedoka
fund. It's a proven segula. I can vouch that it really
works!" At this point, I was willing to try anything, even
something as drastic as giving charity over and beyond our
maaser budget. We pinched every penny, begrudged every
grush, and even then, there weren't enough to go around. But
I quickly delivered a sum of money to the head of our local
community fund. (Just so you don't get terribly impressed
with my efficiency, this happens to be my next door
neighbor.)
And MUCH to my amazement, THAT was the end of our mouse
problem!
And the moral of the story: Tzedoka does not only save
from death, it also saves from mice!
Debbie -- what about lice?
