Mice in April
But at this time last year, my poetry professor asked us: "Do you know what month April is?"
I replied, "the cruelest month?"
"Well, yes, but no," he chuckled,"it is National Poetry Month."
"Oh. Right"
Yesterday, as I prepared to make myself a sandwich, I found that a mouse had nibbled through the bread bag and enjoyed a meal in our pantry. I pulled out our backup loaf of bread, but he had gotten into that one too. It was time to pull out the mouse traps.
I always feel a bit sad when I put down the traps. I don't like senseless violence and I do like mice. I feel bad for the little guys; after all, it is a case of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. They are just minding their own business and looking for a warm place and an easy meal. Finding their way into my walls and then into my pantry is like hitting the jackpot. I can even imagine them rising up on their hind legs and doing a little jig when they see the loaf of bread sitting on the shelf. Unfortunately, it happens to be my shelf, and mice aren't big on hygiene. And my wife isn't big on mice. So as part of our "you kill the moths, I'll take care of the rest" agreement, I found myself smearing a dab of peanut butter on the mousetrap catch.
Around 5:30 in the morning, I was woken up by the "clack" in the kitchen. "The mouse trap," I thought rather dejectedly, "poor little guy." And then another clatter followed the first. After a few seconds it happened again. Jessica slept through it, but I crawled out of bed and headed towards the sound. When I flipped on the kitchen light I saw that the trap had done its job; a mouse was trapped in its jaws. But it didn't finish him off. He was struggling (which was making the racket). His head was stuck inside the mechanism, leaving him mortally hurt but with neck unbroken. I picked up the trap and looked at it. Part of me thought of taking it outdoors, opening it, and setting him free. Maybe he would be ok. But looking at how tight the trap was, I knew that I would be condemning him to a slow death. I agonized over it, but I knew that I had to put him out of his misery. I gritted my teeth and put my thumbs on each side of the trap and then I pressed down until I heard the little "crack" that told me that his neck was finally broken. He struggled a few more times, mechanically, without purpose. His leg twitched, and then he was gone. I opened the trap into an old plastic bag, tied it, and threw it away. I washed my hands, turned off the kitchen light, and headed back to bed.
I lay in bed for a long time and wished I had a cat. Then at least someone would have benefited from this. Sleep was far off, and my mind took its time in going through its thoughts. Of course, the closer to sleep that I got, the stranger those thoughts became. I started wondering if I had really killed the critter. "Maybe it is lying in the bag unconscious..." I started to imagine it coming back to life in the bag, chewing its way out and running around at the bottom of our garbage bin. The more I thought about it, the more mythical the mouse became. It was sneaky. It was strong. Heck, it was a zombie mouse come back from the grave! I groggily got out of bed and went to check on it. Still dead. I double bagged it just in case (as if an extra layer of plastic would make a difference against an undead rodent).
But the real odd behavior started the second time I went back to bed. Once again, I felt bad for the mouse, but this time around, in my midnight mania, I began to compose heroic verses to the fallen rodent. I remember being awake enough to know that they were terrible ("the mousetrap snapped, your neck did not..."), but being too delirious to stop. Perhaps because it is April; it is poetry month, after all. Or maybe TS Eliot was right, and April is simply cruel. I know one mouse that would certainly agree.
I replied, "the cruelest month?"
"Well, yes, but no," he chuckled,"it is National Poetry Month."
"Oh. Right"
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Yesterday, as I prepared to make myself a sandwich, I found that a mouse had nibbled through the bread bag and enjoyed a meal in our pantry. I pulled out our backup loaf of bread, but he had gotten into that one too. It was time to pull out the mouse traps.
I always feel a bit sad when I put down the traps. I don't like senseless violence and I do like mice. I feel bad for the little guys; after all, it is a case of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. They are just minding their own business and looking for a warm place and an easy meal. Finding their way into my walls and then into my pantry is like hitting the jackpot. I can even imagine them rising up on their hind legs and doing a little jig when they see the loaf of bread sitting on the shelf. Unfortunately, it happens to be my shelf, and mice aren't big on hygiene. And my wife isn't big on mice. So as part of our "you kill the moths, I'll take care of the rest" agreement, I found myself smearing a dab of peanut butter on the mousetrap catch.
Around 5:30 in the morning, I was woken up by the "clack" in the kitchen. "The mouse trap," I thought rather dejectedly, "poor little guy." And then another clatter followed the first. After a few seconds it happened again. Jessica slept through it, but I crawled out of bed and headed towards the sound. When I flipped on the kitchen light I saw that the trap had done its job; a mouse was trapped in its jaws. But it didn't finish him off. He was struggling (which was making the racket). His head was stuck inside the mechanism, leaving him mortally hurt but with neck unbroken. I picked up the trap and looked at it. Part of me thought of taking it outdoors, opening it, and setting him free. Maybe he would be ok. But looking at how tight the trap was, I knew that I would be condemning him to a slow death. I agonized over it, but I knew that I had to put him out of his misery. I gritted my teeth and put my thumbs on each side of the trap and then I pressed down until I heard the little "crack" that told me that his neck was finally broken. He struggled a few more times, mechanically, without purpose. His leg twitched, and then he was gone. I opened the trap into an old plastic bag, tied it, and threw it away. I washed my hands, turned off the kitchen light, and headed back to bed.
I lay in bed for a long time and wished I had a cat. Then at least someone would have benefited from this. Sleep was far off, and my mind took its time in going through its thoughts. Of course, the closer to sleep that I got, the stranger those thoughts became. I started wondering if I had really killed the critter. "Maybe it is lying in the bag unconscious..." I started to imagine it coming back to life in the bag, chewing its way out and running around at the bottom of our garbage bin. The more I thought about it, the more mythical the mouse became. It was sneaky. It was strong. Heck, it was a zombie mouse come back from the grave! I groggily got out of bed and went to check on it. Still dead. I double bagged it just in case (as if an extra layer of plastic would make a difference against an undead rodent).
But the real odd behavior started the second time I went back to bed. Once again, I felt bad for the mouse, but this time around, in my midnight mania, I began to compose heroic verses to the fallen rodent. I remember being awake enough to know that they were terrible ("the mousetrap snapped, your neck did not..."), but being too delirious to stop. Perhaps because it is April; it is poetry month, after all. Or maybe TS Eliot was right, and April is simply cruel. I know one mouse that would certainly agree.
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