I’m that weird girl with way, way too many mice. Owning one, two or maximum three mice is a normal enough number.
It shows that you’re a quirky but not crazy—you probably play the ukulele, but definitely not the musical saw.
When my mouse started to get huge, my roommates made jokes about it, like, “Francine’s super pregnant. She’s going to have like fifteen babies, and then her babies will have babies.” And then eleven tiny mice sprang forth from Francine’s loins and the smiles faded.
Now, I don’t want be the irresponsible pet owner who blames everyone else, but come on. This one is not on me. This one’s on the pet shop.
What kind of sham establishment doesn’t separate the mice (who are all too eager to get jiggy with one another) by gender? You’re a pet store. You sell literally dozens of weirdly complex cages. Just take a few of the cages you already have in stock, and put the lady mice in one and their gentleman counterparts in the other.
Boom. I just solved all your pregnant mice problems. Now you won’t have people like me coming to you with fistfuls of mice, asking you to take them, because Lord knows I don’t want them. People will stop leaving them on your doorstep like orphaned kids and you can focus on other things, like finding a way to get that tragic-looking parrot in the corner to look less tragic.
I guess what I’m saying is … does anyone want a baby mouse? Free, to a good home.