>P.S. KEN, The mouse that could make a map of his brain.....well, he
>died...Seems that he went the wrong way on a one way street and was run
>over by a crazed Mass. Driver across the street from his pethouse at
>M.I.T.. Flushed down the toilet this afternoon at 4:38pm, The moral of this
>event? Never,never be envious of a mouse.
>
>[log in to unmask] "OH, What A Beautiful Morning"
Thought you'd like to know - before his unfortunate demise, that mouse had
published an article on his life-experiences in the "New Scientist": I have
copied extracts below
(full text can be found at <http://www.reutershealth.com/jir/jir19.html>)
*****************
Advice To Mice:
A Commentary On The Reward and Punishment Game
Dominic Recaldin
There are alI manner of opportunities for white
mice today.
When I was young, it was either straight into a
petshop, or try to scratch a living off the
corporation rubbish dump. Neither was exactly a
bed of roses.
[part omitted] And then
science came, and life changed almost overnight.
After generations of persecution, white mice were
suddenly "in." Scientific research changed us from
being the most untouchable into the most hutchable
animals in the history of Man.
The boom began, I suppose, with medical research.
Scientific This is still a tremendous career outlet these
research days, but it is not without its attendant risks,
changed us from of course. You pay your penny and take your
being the most chance. You could be lucky and be part of a
untouchable skin-grafting team. Apart from finishing up like a
into the most harlequin quilt you come to no real harm. On the
hutchable other hand, you may end up in toxicology tests at
animals in the Porton Down. Even so, by following the age-old
history of Man. rule "Never Volunteer," you could stay there all
your life and never have a day off sick. When they
start to fumble around for test animals just fade
quietly away into a corner of the cage. The ones
they can't catch they invariably leave as
controls. Never rush or panic, as this will draw
their attention. And above all, don't attack them
-- a cornered scientist can be vicious. If all
else fails and they grab you anyway, pee on their
hand.
I would like to say a word here about
accommodation in research labs. By and large it is
very good. The meals are regular and the food is
excellent. There is room for improvement in other
directions, however. I wish they wouldn't persist
in putting down sawdust. It gets all over your
fur. You keep thinking you've got systemic
dandruff. Newspaper would be better. None of your
Daily Sketch rubbish though. Most of us prefer a
heavy daily -- the Times is a favourite,
especially if the crossword is on view. But for
God's sake change the paper every day. Never mind
the hygiene: what were the answers to yesterday's
clues?
I found my own metier in psychology. I run mazes
and things. Psychologists are pleasant,
simple-mind souls, and life is pretty good. Mind
you, you need be a cut above the average with the
old gray matter. They don't like dim animals doing
intelligence work: it takes them far too long to
get any results, you see. They'd never use
rabbits, for example. They're as thick as two
planks. NaturalIy, it doesn't do to be too smart
either. Most mazes are ineptly easy. It's all you
can do sometimes not to nod off in the middle of a
run, paralyzed with boredom. But you must appear
to play the game and act as though the entire
thing is straining the frontiers of your
intelligence. You scratch their back and they'll
scratch yours.
Reward-punishment games present a bit of a
problem. You'd think psychologists would know
better. I am not altogether unknown in the trade
as a cheese gourmet. I like nothing better than a
rich, ripe wedge of Stilton. And what do I get?
That same old indestructible cube of New Zealand
Cheddar, day after day. The first time I saw it I
nearly had a blue fit. If that's the reward, I
thought, what's the punishment? Quite
frankly, some mornings I prefer to press the wrong
button on purpose. Anything is preferable to that
pig's breakfast, even twelve volts up the hooter.
Reprinted with permission from The New Scientist.
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