It was a summer vacation when I was around nine years old. I was visiting my uncle, who then lived in a small village; in an old house.
One afternoon I was just dawdling around the house like I did every day. At a corner near the back door I saw something wriggling on the earth. Something small, reddish brown, and I’d had to see what it was, naturally. When I got near enough to examine it I saw something bald, with a tail and four tiny legs.
It was a newborn mouse; even its eyes weren’t open yet. It must have been fell from the rafters above. It was small, helpless, and cute; I had no choice but to take it under my protection; and I did.
I picked it up gently and put it in a small cardboard box. I tried to feed it with cotton, dipped in milk. After some time my aunt found out what I was up to and advised me patiently that it was no good and I should abandon my efforts.
Finally I agreed that the baby mouse should be left on the rafters so its mother could find it and handed it to my uncle. That was my smallest pet and for the shortest period.