Where's the Mouse?

I’m usually at my favorite coffee shop by 8:20 at least three mornings a week. I need to be at the office, which is 3 minutes away, by 8:30. That is our head tech Cole’s rule, not mine. I’m good with it most mornings: I get 5 minutes to chat with owner Val and barista Tracy about the latest happenings in our central Denver neighborhood; a minute to hear Tom gloat about his Red Sox or Celtics – I personally hate the Celtics, but love the Red Sox unless they happen to be slaughtering our beloved Rockies in the World Series; another minute to tell Lou about how I nearly ran him down as he crossed 6th Avenue on his run and then ask him how his run was; and 3 minutes to avoid Cole’s cold stare. Trust me, you really want to avoid her stare, especially if you’re late for an appointment.

A few months ago, on a particularly busy morning, Tom was engrossed in conversation and Lou was not there so I took a few moments to enjoy the work of some of the local artists who Val supports. I was drawn to a watercolor of a European village scene with cartoon-like characters - people and animals engaged in a hundred different activities, all happy and smiling. It is art that makes you smile. It also makes you forget where you’re supposed to be as it pulls you in to its ‘goings-on’ – happy children skipping along their way to school, mothers grocery-shopping, the milkman on his deliveries, a woman hanging laundry from a window. Look closely and its simplicity transfixes you; step back and its intricacy is alive. I got the "Cole Stare" that morning.

For several days after, every time I stopped for coffee I took a few minutes to explore more of the painting, each time finding something different, always something that made me smile, only now I allowed myself more time to avoid the dreaded ‘Stare.’ One morning while waiting for my usual, large, 3-shot, no-foam, non-fat latte and checking in on ‘the village’, Val asked if I’d found the little mouse. “What mouse?” I wanted to know. “The one in the painting,” she replied, “No one’s found it yet.” Cole was waiting for me...

So began the quest to find the mouse. I had the good sense to give myself more time, but I became obsessed in its quest. Time after time, I would leave after saying ‘goodbye’ to Val, Tracy, Tom, and Lou, frustrated that I’d failed again to find the mouse. I would still be looking for the mouse but finally, after more than a week, Val mercifully asked, “Do you want to know where the mouse is?” “YES!” I cried, exasperated, “I’ve looked everywhere and I don’t believe there IS a mouse in this painting, so please, SHOW me the MOUSE!” Val came from behind the counter - a smirk on her face, walked casually over to the painting, and without-even-looking, slowly and caustically extended her index finger to a micro-mouse sitting on the hood of the milk truck!

How often do we find ourselves looking intently for the little mouse in the intricate wonder of the practice world in which we live? Do we ever step back to appreciate the beauty of its intricacy, or the immensely rewarding feeling of having created a cohesive, bonded team working together for a common good? How often do we pause to say “thank you” to those who help us create our painting?

P. S. For the last few years we have provided externships for fourth-year vet students. Last January Oklahoma State student Madeline was with us for 3 weeks and I introduced her to all the folks at the coffee shop. Right away I told Maddie about the mouse in the painting that no one had ever found and I snickered knowing that she would leave Denver frustrated at never having found that tiny mouse. The next morning Madeline sauntered in, her coffee in hand and her smirk on face, and proudly and loudly announced (to me, just to me) that she had found the idiot mouse in less than 5 minutes...and she was even on time! Cole smiled at her.

Would someone please tell me if there’s a metaphor there that I’m just not getting??