If you give a mouse a cookie…

Growing up, I was responsible for emptying the mouse traps strategically set all over my family’s 1785 stone farmhouse. 

My mother hates mice, vehemently, the way that I despise spiders and that one horribly icky word.  So, being the token animal lover, the equestrian, who regularly saw mice scurrying around the hay stacks at my barn, I would calmly “shush” my shrieking mother after we heard the tell-tale “SNAP!  CRACK!” of the trap and then would go in search of a plastic bag.  I’d take the trap out into the cornfield that lined our property, open it wide, and say a silent “I’m sorry” to the little gray animal that fell out.  Sometimes, I even took a minute or two to dig a shallow grave. 

And then I’d come bounding back inside, proud of my bravery, eager to soothe my mother further and to tell my father how I’d helped.¹

Last night, as I stumbled through the front door after a dizzying and leaden yoga class, my roommate met me with squeals and fluttering hands and a rapid-fire explanation of how my cat had caught a mouse but didn’t kill it and so my roommate had raced around trying to catch it, only to finally corner it—with my cat’s help—and cover it with a plastic tupperware container.

The thick fog of my yoga class lifted as I laughed at both her antics and my cat’s sublime satisfaction in his hunt and prey.  He laid, lazily, a little dazed, next to the tupperware container, his paw firmly atop the long, unmoving tail snaking out from under the container.

His smug expression read:  “Ahhh, yes.  Look at what I did while you were away.  Aren’t you impressed?” 

Honestly?  I was.  My cat is a 19-pound Maine Coon that spends 23 hours a day sleeping and has enough fuzzy fur to knit not one but two afghans.  He doesn’t move much, let alone run around or chase small objects all that often.  Granted, he didn’t finish the job—i.e., go in for the kill!—but hey, at least he’d caught the damn thing.

“What do we do?!” my roommate cried, hopping from one high-heeled foot to the other. 

I indulged in 10 minutes of strategizing, giggling, shrieking, and discussing whether we let the mouse live or make it suffer an untimely death-by-the-thwack-of-my-shoe.²  We opted for life—I’d like to say because I’m still an animal lover and, by nature, not a violent person.  But, let’s be honest.  Neither my roommate nor I could figure out how we’d keep the thing still long enough for us to give it a good smack to the head.  And, further, whose shoe would be our weapon?

We finally settled on sliding a magazine underneath the container, trapping the mouse inside.  Of course, I did the honors, as my roommate stood five feet away, mouth agape in a perfect “O”, her expression a hilarious mix of awe and horror.  I proceeded to slip on some flipflops, carry the container downstairs, out the front door, around the block, and into the street.

“Maybe if you throw him out here, a car will run him over!” my roommate said, hopeful, standing several feet away from me. 

I lifted the magazine and chucked the mouse out.  It ran like the dickens as my roommate ran in the opposite direction.

We made our way home, eyes wet with laughter, our bodies shaking just a little with adrenaline and exhaustion. 

I probably should have been freaked out—rodents are alive and well in my apartment.  Excellent.  My cat, while useful in the chase, didn’t kill it (or even maim it all that much) and simply left it up to me and my roommate.  Greaaaaat.  Thanks, buddy.  And, we’d given the thing a second chance at life, meaning we might very well have a rendezvous with it sometime in the near future.  Brilliant!

But, honestly?  My mood, only 20 minutes earlier, had been sullen, dark, and weary; now, I felt like a kid again.  I even called my parents, a little giddy, and recounted the tale.

I thought back to my yoga class earlier in the evening, my 14th, in this long 30-day journey.  I’d felt trapped in that hot crowded room, crammed into a corner, suffocating, my limbs like cement blocks, death awaiting me.  I wonder if that little mouse felt the same way beneath the dome of that tupperware container. 

And, if he did, then I feel that much better about letting him go.   Because, believe me, I know—oh, don’t I know!—that first, glorious burst of energy and life and breath and freedom he felt when dropped back into the world. 

¹ Yes, I was proud of emptying mouse traps…  Some might say I was an odd child. 

²  My few male readers (f.B.! Duffy!) might think we ladies ridiculous and silly for such antics.  But, whatever.  Mice are freaky, sneaky, gross little critters.