Christy Esmahan: The Laptev Virus

One day about three weeks ago, one of the graduate students, Kevin, had told her about Opus, though the mouse had not yet been baptized as such. Molly really liked Kevin. It wasn’t just that he was probably closely related to Channing Tatum, as evidenced by his green eyes and gorgeous smile. It was because even though he was obviously busy and had tons of friends who were constantly contacting him on his cell phone, he still made time to explain things and teach her things, unlike the other technicians, some of whom were just plain nasty.

The researchers in the department that studied HIV/AIDS, he explained, were performing a non-intrusive study to see how long it took for the mice to wake up from anesthesia. Sometimes they did benign tests like this to see if there was any way to make this process more tolerable for the little mice. They had tried different methods for waking them, and they had found that the colder the mice were, the more lethal the anesthesia was. So they were trying different methods for keeping the mice warm to see if they could help the mice emerge more healthily from the somniferous effect of the anesthetic.

“We kept him under an electric blanked for several hours afterwards, you see,” explained Kevin. “Otherwise he would be too cold and never wake up.”

“Aw, he doesn’t like being a little penguin!” she exclaimed, obviously upset and reaching out a finger to stroke the soft white fur.

“Well, that’s why we were trying to keep him warm,” he said, flashing her that irresistible smile with little dimples in his cheeks. “We used to just leave the mice to wake up on their own, but this latest test confirmed that if we artificially maintained the mice at a constant 37 degrees Celsius, and allowed them to wake up slowly, they do much better.”

Molly listened enraptured as he explained that the procedure had worked and the mouse was fine, but now, lab protocol dictated, he could not be a part of any further studies, since mice could not be re-used, and once mice had left the kennels where they were kept and had been mixed with other mice, they were not supposed to be returned to their original homes. It was a shame to put him down when he was otherwise healthy, but those were the rules.

“So, there’s nothing wrong with him?” Molly inquired, hoping she didn’t appear stupid.

“Nothing at all. Now that he’s warmed up and woken up, he’s perfectly fine. Our test worked and now we know that it’s better to wake the mice up that way. So he served his purpose and future anesthetized mice will have an easier time coming out of it.”

Molly pictured an incubator with a long, two inch wide electric blanket and the mice all lying down in a long row, their tiny little heads, feet and tails peeking out from top and bottom of the blanket as they slowly recovered from the anesthesia. Or maybe it would be like a sauna, or a resort for mice, all nice and cozy and warm. Perhaps some of them would wake up earlier than the others and start crawling around? Would the researchers also put food and water in there for the early risers? She shook her head at her own silly thinking and took the mouse gently from Kevin. It stretched and gave a small yawn, which made her smile. “So you’re sure there’s nothing unusual about him?” she repeated. “No built-in tumors, no aneurism time bombs or anything?”

Kevin’s brow furrowed and he looked in mock concentration, then he brightened. “He was sterilized as a pup, but nothing else. Off you go, little guy,” he said, taking the mouse back from Molly’s hand.

Just then Tammy, one of the technicians whom Molly really disliked, entered the room.

“Oh, Kevin, there you are,” she said in a breathy voice, batting her pretty blue eyes at him before turning and giving Molly a quick up and down look that was both assessing and dismissive.

Molly took a step back from Kevin even though there was no reason for her to do so—they were doing nothing wrong. But somehow she always felt intimidated by Tammy with her impeccable blonde hair and attractive long eyelashes which she heavily accentuated. Molly seemed to always forget about wearing make-up until she came in contact with someone like Tammy who obviously spent an inordinate amount of time on her appearance.

“Kevin, I need you to come take a look at a situation we have in C8,” Tammy cooed.

Molly noticed that there was no ‘please’ or ‘when you have time.’ Tammy assumed that if he was with Molly it was not important. All pretty girls seemed to think that what they had to say to someone like Kevin was much more interesting than whatever she would have to say, and the realization made a small blush creep over Molly’s face.

“Um,” said Kevin, still holding the mouse.

“I can take him,” said Molly reaching for the mouse. “I have an empty cage back in C12.”

“But the mice aren’t supposed to mix.”

“It’s all right,” she said quickly. “I’ve got a cage that’s been cleaned and it’s separate from the others. I’ll just keep him there for a few hours and then I’ll take him to the Waiting Room if you want.”

Kevin hesitated.

“Kevin,” said Tammy, drawing out the syllables in his name. She was clearly becoming impatient. She strutted over to him and handed him a notebook. “Come on. I need to show this to you now.”

Kevin glanced at the notebook and then turned back toward Molly. “Okay, I guess that’s fine, but please don’t forget to take him to the Waiting Room later. You’ll remember?”

“Of course,” said Molly, accepting the mouse and turning away from Tammy. After Kevin and Tammy left, she took the little guy by the scruff of his neck to place him in a carrying cage which she would use to transport him back to Room C12, the room in the vivarium where she worked. Later that afternoon she would take him to the room they had euphemistically nicknamed the ‘Waiting Room’, which was at the far end of the building. There she would place him in a larger cage and the mouse would be mixed with all of the other mice that could no longer be used. These “expended” mice were stored together and had one last chance to enjoy themselves, romping and playing with their peers, before they were sent to be sacrificed painlessly.

Room C12 was much like room C8, where Kevin had gone with Tammy, and all of the other mice storage rooms of the vivarium. It was a sterile-looking room, with white walls, a white ceiling embedded with two long rows of fluorescent lights. The floor and walls were a light tan color and they were made of a special polyurethane resin which ensured that there were no cracks or crevices where bacteria could possibly hide. A slightly musty smell, mixed with the scent of the furry animal bodies filled the air, though Molly rarely ever noticed it except when she had not been in the room for a long time. Stainless steel racks on wheels were lined up in rows, and the nesting cages were placed side-by-side on these racks.

The nesting cages were not too different from the hamster cage she had had when she was younger: they were transparent plastic bins, lined with a couple of inches of bedding and litter material, and over the top of each bin was an angled metallic rack which supported a water bottle and a tray of food so that the rodents could help themselves as they pleased. Brightly colored index cards fit into a slot on the front of the cage, and these were labeled with the type of mice found in the cage, their birth dates (the mice were mostly siblings of each other, though the males were kept separate from the females) and any other relevant information.

Each nesting cage held up to six mice. Technically the mice from different nesting cages were not supposed to mix with each other, Molly knew, but occasionally, when she was sure no one would find out, Molly did let the mice she cared for visit with one another. Mice were social creatures, she reasoned, and as long as she didn’t get them mixed up, there certainly was no harm in letting them be gregarious.