In another thread, RfM poster "helemon" asks:

"What's with Mormon royalty and their cruelty to animals?

"It occurred to me today. I remember Steve Benson's story about his grandfather, the mouse, and the fire.

"Then, there's the story that will not die about Mitt Romney strapping his dog Seamus' car carrier to the roof of the car prior to a family road trip.

"So, are high mucky-muck p*****hood holders all this callous? Is there something in Mormon royal culture that desensitizes the men to animal cruelty?

"And even more frightening is the thought that anyone this callous toward animals will probably have little or no compassion for people, either."

("What's with Mormon royalty and their cruelty to animals?," posted by "helamonster," on "Recovery from Mormonism" bulletin board, 16 March 2012, at: http://exmormon.org/phorum/read.php?2,445553,445553#msg-445553)
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Gather 'round the barbeque and let's recall what happened to that poor, frightened, helpless little mouse:

Maybe it’s just the animal in me, but ever since I was a kid, I have enjoyed surrounding myself with a wide assortment of our fascinating non-human fellow inhabitants of the planet.

As a small boy, my first pet was a black lab.As a pre-teenager I loved to collect, feed and share bedroom space with hamsters, turtles, horny toads and tarantulas. Fellow creatures whose company I have also enjoyed have included collies, cocker spaniels, shih-tzus and an assortment of cats.

Reptiles and lizards have also been my friends, including turtles, iguanas, bearded dragons and uramastyx (an Egyptian lizard). Furry little critters who have shared creature comforts in my bedroom, basement, workplace office, laundry room and/or backyard have included rabbits, gerbils, ferrets, guinea pigs, chinchillas, degus, mice and rats.

The list of feathered roommates with whom I have inhabited the same living quarters has, at one time or another, featured cockatiels, African grey parrots, finches, love birds, parakeets, conjures and abandoned baby sparrows.

Some non-human pals with whom I have also provided rent-free space include spur tortoises (which can grow up to 150 pounds and expand to three feet or so in diameter), a leopard tortoise whose spiky shell earned her the name “Teton,” a one-winged pigeon found by my daughter, some ball pythons, an African dwarf frog, a goldfish, a pond full of koi and a blue-and-grey macaw to whom I bequeathed my temple name, “Ezekiel (Polly want a secret handshake?)

So fascinated have I been with animals that, at one time or another, I thought about becoming a biologist, a zookeeper or a fossil hunter. Call me a softie. At Scout camp in Texas as a teenager, us hungry boys were presented with live chickens by our youth leader to eat for supper. He told us to proceed with their execution if we wanted something to eat. I couldn't bring myself to chop their heads off with my trusty little hatchet--as I watched the one I was holding by its legs and steading myself to decapitate blinking at me wide-eyed and frightened.

My grandfather, Ezra Taft Benson, was an animal kind of guy himself.

As a southern Idaho farm boy, he milked cows, slopped hogs, raised chickens, fed lambs, rode horses and herded cattle. Eventually, he became Secretary of Agriculture under President Dwight Eisenhower.

At family reunions, my grandfather would saddle up his mount and show us how to ride. I remember seeing him beaming, sitting astride a beautiful palomino, leading colorful columns down Main Street as Grand Marshal of the Preston Rodeo Parade.

But there was one time I witnessed him handle an animal in a manner that I will never forget.

It happened one day when he and I were alone, doing chores, at our family cabin.

Back in the early 1960s, Ezra Taft and Flora Benson owned a cabin up Mill Creek Canyon in Salt Lake City, Utah. It was a beautiful, spacious place, surrounded by fluttering aspen and nestled close to a bright, splashy creek. (Sadly, my grandparents ended up having to sell the cabin, reportedly because they lost thousands of dollars as victims of a bizarre financial scam).

Our family would often escape to this cabin hideaway for fun and relaxation. In the winter, we kids would steer our sleds and inner tubes down the snow-covered road that led up to the cabin. During the warmer months, we would ride the tire swing back and forth next to the creek and go for walks down the leafy back trails that laced the surrounding area.

My grandfather and I would sometimes take short hikes together and I remember during one of those times pointing out to him a lizard sitting just a few feet away from where we were walking along a sunlit path. He congratulated me on what he called my good eyesight, saying that he had not spotted it.

On one particular weekend, when I was about 10 years old, I had ventured up to the Benson family cabin to help my grandfather, at his invitation, do some spring cleaning. It was the first time in that period of my young life that I remember spending any extended one-on-one time with him.

My grandfather was a big, strapping man, over six feet tall. He had a commanding presence and a firm, projecting voice. As a young boy, I stood in awe of him, as seemingly did everyone else in my family. I dare say that at times as a youth my grandfather appeared downright intimidating. At the cabin that weekend, to a boy like me, he resembled some kind of mountain man, dressed in an open-necked, checkered shirt and big leather boots.

Adding to that image, he hadn’t shaved.

This was hardly the picture I was used to. Usually I saw him as Ezra Taft Benson, Apostle of the Lord, dressed up in his dark General Conference suit and matching tie, complete with starched white shirt.

As we were busily involved cleaning the cabin (with me, as usual, dutifully following orders), my grandfather paused. Through the short, grey stubble that was beginning to sprout from his chin, he smiled and asked, “Stephen, do you think I should grow a moustache?”

Being asked by my grandfather for an opinion about anything somewhat startled me. I remember instinctively blurting out that I thought he looked better without it. He smiled back and agreed.

As we were moving objects around the family room in order to sweep its wooden floor, a small kitchen mouse darted out from behind its cover and made a mad dash toward the open door of a nearby bedroom.

I yelled out to my grandfather what I had just seen.

He ordered me to follow the mouse into the bedroom and catch it.

I had absolutely no idea how I was going to accomplish that task but had no intention of disobeying orders. So, I did as I was commanded and headed faithfully into the bedroom. The bedroom was dimly lit, with the curtains closed. In a far corner of the room was a bed. Trying to adjust my eyes, I couldn’t see any mouse.

My grandfather stood behind me in the frame of the door, holding a broom. He told me to get down and check under the bed. I dropped to my hands and knees and peered under the bed.

There, in a dark corner, close to the front left leg of the bed, crouched the brown-haired, black-eyed, quivering little mouse. Both me and the mouse were scared at our respective predictaments.

I told my grandfather I had spotted the mouse. He ordered me to move forward and grab it. I wasn’t wearing any gloves and was afraid that the mouse might bite me.

I hesitated.

My grandfather again commanded me to move toward the objective and complete the mission. Feeling a growing sense of unease but seeing no alternative to being an obedient Mormon boy, I pressed my stomach against the bedroom floor, spread my arms out wide, palms forward, and began inching my way, ever so slowly, toward the mouse.

As I began to close the gap between myself and the frightened mouse, I was frantically trying to figure out what I was going to do. One thing for sure, I did not want to grab the mouse. At the same time, I did not want to disobey my grandfather. So, I continued to slide forward on my stomach, not knowing how to bring the situation to a satisfactory conclusion.

With my hands mere inches from the cornered mouse, the mouse decided to take matters into its own paws. It made a desperate bolt for freedom, leaping over my outstretched arms and making a beeline for the bedroom door that led back into the family room.

From under the bed, I screamed to my grandfather that the mouse was getting away.

I heard a loud WHACK! behind me.

I backed out from underneath the bed and turned around. My grandfather was standing in the door frame, broom in one hand, the stunned mouse dangling by its tail from the closed fingers of his other hand.

Without a word, he turned away and headed into the family room. Wide-eyed, I followed.

At the front of the family room was a large fireplace. Inside it, bright orange flames furiously crackled. My grandfather strode toward the fireplace. By now, the tiny mouse was beginning to stir, as it hung upside down from the large hand of my grandfather. It twisted and turned, trying desperately to get away.

My grandfather stopped in front of the roaring fireplace. I had arrived at his side, where I could feel the radiating heat. My grandfather did not hesitate.

He threw the live mouse into the flames.

The animal landed on the end of a partially-consumed log. Flames flickered up from beneath toward the terrified mouse.

Briefly, the little animal remained where it had been tossed. Then, it panicked and scampered toward the opposite end of the log. Unfortunately, that end of the log was fully-engulfed in hot flames.

A finger of fire caught the mouse on the tip of its nose. Instantaneously, flames swept over its entire, hair-covered body, turning it completely black. Burned beyond recognition but still alive, the mouse stood frozen on the log, singed from head to tail. Surrounded by flames, the mouse tried to breathe through scorched lungs. Its tiny chest expanded and contracted a couple of times, like a miniature set of bellows.

Then, it fell into the flames and disappeared from view.

I was horrified and could not utter a word.

Meanwhile, there was work to be done. Grandpa Benson turned away from the fireplace and went back to cleaning. I joined him.

But I never forgot the mouse.

Another day of thinning the mouse herd at the family cabin.

Not a job for sissies.



Edited 8 time(s). Last edit at 03/17/2012 01:56AM by steve benson.

I remember the first time I read your story and I could barely bring myself to think about it and so did a Scarlett O'Hara...."I'll think about it tomorrow" and then tomorrow never came and I forgot about the mouse and the little boy.

So I just re-read it now and remember why I wanted to "think about it tomorrow".

Just the thought of the horror that had to be for you as a little boy makes my head spin and my heart hurt.

And I wonder what I would have thought had I known the mouse story back when I was a member. I probably would have thought how could an apostle do that to a little mouse and to his young grandson?!

Oh wait, I was a member when I knew about the racist doctrine, Mountain Meadows, polygamy, Danites, symbolically slashed my throat and disemboweled myself. So I would have just added the apostle, a liitle boy, and a mouse to my list of things "I'll think about tomorrow".

Of course you don't have to answer but did you ever talk to your parents about it? If so what did they say? How did you deal with that trauma?



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 03/17/2012 12:10AM by Helen.

Thanks for answering Steve.

I was hoping to read that your parents listened, let you cry and said that they would _talk to Grandpa_.

Sad that children know when and what they can share and when and what they cannot share and therefore too often have to suffer in silence.

*sigh*

Helen Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> Thanks for answering Steve.
>
> I was hoping to read that your parents listened,
> let you cry and said that they would _talk to
> Grandpa_.

Touching, Helen.

> Sad that children know when and what they can
> share and when and what they cannot share and
> therefore too often have to suffer in silence.

Insightful.

Thanks.

Edit to add: I'm currently reading a book written by a woman whose family lived in poverty and at times was homeless due to her father's alcoholism. At other times, they had a rich life in terms of education and big life experiences. When you see it from the child's point of view it's touching and heartbreaking and yes, indeed, what can seem to adults like no big deal can scar a child for life. As Erma Bombeck (I think it was her) said, "we spend our whole adulthood getting over our childhood".

A lot of us do, anyway, and many of those are exmos! (Just to stay on point).



Edited 2 time(s). Last edit at 03/17/2012 11:21AM by Nightingale.

Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 03/17/2012 11:29AM by steve benson.

My two responses are not meant to apply only to Steve but to all Mormon children who grew/grow up in challenging households, such as Don Bagley who is kind enough to share his story with us, and other posters through the yrs who have given us glimpses into tough childhoods. It's important, in particular, as so many Mormons and others deny the veracity of people's accounts and say it's exaggeration or lies, denying people the right to their own narrative.

Regarding ETB, Steve's experiences give many to whom it's important a glimpse of the other side of ETB, good, bad or indifferent. That too is instructive and it does people good to know.

And sounds like the parents bowed to the King too, not much wonder you suffered in silence.

Just heartbreaking all way round.

another *sigh*

I am heartened by your story Steve because with that kind of pressure and everyone submits to the King you were brave and courageous to be able to walk away.

in the words of Ali G......respect.

When I decided to leave, it was ultimately a matter of me having determined what the facts were and then moving ahead in terms of what to do about it that was right for me. I didn't consider my voluntary exit to be a courageous act; I considered it to be dutiful one.

My grandfather was wrong and so was the Mormon church.

End of story.

Decision-making time.

I did what I felt I had to do.

It was my life and and I wanted it back.



Edited 7 time(s). Last edit at 03/17/2012 07:27PM by steve benson.

and I think this is terribly cruel and unnecessary. Had I heard this story as a child, I might have rebelled much sooner than my teens. Animals have always held a soft spot in my heart, to the point I don't even kill harmless spiders.

Really disturbs me to think that I was brainwashed into believing ETB was a saintly old man.
I echo Helen's questions- Did you ever talk about this with your parents?

That's a good story, Steve. When I was fifteen I was sent to a boy's ranch for truancy and associating with pot users--those were my charges. I got six months in the J-Bar-J ranch in Bend, Oregon, a forty acre working ranch. We had a serious problem with barn mice eating our livestock feed.

Our counselors told us to kill all the mice we could, by any means necessary. So we stomped on mice, lit them on fire and drilled through their heads with a hand drill. We poured out gasoline in rings on the dirt, lit the gas and threw frightened mice in to the rings with predictable results. We vivisected mice using a vice clamp and a variety of hand tools.

For the evils of skipping classes, running away from home and passing joints, I was corrected.

and I don't think I ever will.

If something large - with teeth and a bad attitude - was coming at me or my grandchildren, I don't think I would have an issue with putting a bullet through it.

But a MOUSE! Heck, that same broom could have sent the little critter back out into the natural setting it came from.

Self-defense is one thing; but taking the life of something that is not likely to harm you isn't necessary. (Yes, yes, I know that rodents CAN carry fleas that carry plague, yada, yada - but to my knowledge, there wasn't much plague going on in rural Utah at that time.)

Mice are pests, and we set the traps for them in this house.

But I would never burn one alive. That is unnecessarily cruel and inhumane. Certainly not behavior becoming an apostle of the Lord. Not the same lord who dictated that animals should only be eaten in the winter, or times of famine, for sure.

My son is the same age as you were then Steve, and the thought of deliberately burning an animal alive in front of him is pretty sickening. And I am certainly not a naugahyde sandal wearing vegan.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 03/17/2012 02:58AM by spanner.

i got tears in my eyes for that mouse and for you as a little boy! :(

and your story just scarred me for life.

otoh, had to be in a room with a four-hour block of Animal Channel's Animal Rescue program.

It's about the Houston ASPCA and some truly unbelievable stories about animal neglect (less cruely than neglect). Still, even in Houston, they do put folk away for animal cruelty.

But then we all know Houston's in one of them pinko, PETA loving, granola states on the coast.

And the animal cops. There was a judge who put a neglectful horse owner on on a 7 day bread and water diet as punishment for starving a horse near to death. IMO, the punishment was too light, but I really despise animal abusers.
And yes, I am one of those people when has to turn the channel when the ASPCA commercials come on because I start crying.

I have to trap mice at my house and I usually have a cat that catches them, too. Every time I catch them in a sticky trap, I am just sick about getting rid of them. To throw one in the fire?

One time when I had a mouse, I had set sticky traps in my bedroom behind the door--and I could actually HEAR the mouse screaming. That is how I knew I had caught it.

You made a grave mistake. When asked, you should have replied, "Yes grandpa, I think you would look stunning in a mustache." Anything that promotes the glory of a stache is a good thing.

I always find it remarkable when a child looks at the actions of a parent or grandparent and thinks, I need to do better than that. And does.

School buildings are chock full of little critters. I always take them in stride. I once had a classroom spider spinning a web, and I named her Charlotte. Of course, a reading of "Charlotte's Web" became obligatory after that. The children never once disturbed her. A cricket was welcomed with a reading of "The Cricket in Times Square." A mouse is either named "Stuart Little," "Melchisedec" (from the book, "A Little Princess,") or "Ralph" after the mouse in "The Mouse and the Motorcycle."

This is a typical interaction -- Children: EEEK! Ms. Summer, there's a mouse in the room! (screams and havoc ensue.) Me: (looking at a terrified little mouse, and speaking casually) Oh, hello Ralph. Didn't I tell you not to come out when the children are around? They don't know about you. (going into lecturing mode) And Ralph, don't even *consider* putting on your little helmet and riding your little motorcycle around the room while the children are here. We have an agreement about that. Motorcycle riding is for *after* school when the children have left the building. Now shoo! And don't come out again while they are around! (A very relieved mouse scampers off.)

Then I walk to the bookshelf and introduce the appropriate book. At this point, the children are fascinated, and want nothing more than to hear about the adventures of Ralph, Charlotte, or another little friendly critter. :-)

That is just sick to burn the mouse alive. Sure it is just a mouse but he could have stomped on it and killed it quickly.

I have used those sticky traps and then had the live mouse to kill. I put the trap in plastic bag and took it outside and dropped a cinder block on it, I didn't look inside when I put it in the trash.