I killed a mouse the other day.
I had just gotten home from the hospital. Turning on the
lights as I walked in the door, my eyes adjusted to the change. I was tired and
hungry, but also filled with a kind of…disappointment. Against the back door
the black silhouette of my dog loomed large; its tail wagged. I couldn’t help
but smile. I gave him some fresh water and figured my dad had already handled
the food. I should have turned around and headed back to my room, but instead I
went outside. I don’t remember why. Suddenly, nearby:
“EET, EET, EET!”
The cry and rustling spooked me. Regaining my wits, I turned
on the back light and went towards the noise. There on the ground sat the
bucket we fill with food for the dog. And inside the bucket was a mouse.
“EET, EET, EET!”
He was a large mouse, but didn’t seem to be able to jump out
of the bucket. Seeing me, he made mad leaps against the side of his prison, to
no avail. He was trapped. His chest pumping, he stared at me with wide,
terrified eyes. He continued to plead. I made to attack him, to see if driven
by fear he could jump out of the bucket. He tried heroically, but could not. I
assumed he fell in while trying to grab some dinner. A field mouse from beyond
our backyard, no doubt. Did he have a family nearby? Friends? If allowed free,
would he return with more?
I picked up the bucket and brought it into my house, laying
it on my bathroom floor. I called my dog over and had him sniff the rodent.
Despite the mouse’s panicked spasms, the pooch was unimpressed, and even tried to
lick him. Harmless, he concluded. “Good boy”, and sent him off. I stared at my quarry.
He was an adorable little guy: grey, robust, and inquisitive even now. He rose
on his two back legs and stared right back at me. “EET?”
“*Sigh*. What am I going to do with you buddy?”
I tip-toed into my parents room and shook my father gently.
His eyes popped open. “What?” he said anxiously. “I caught a mouse.” “So?” “It’s
alive.” “Alive?” “Alive. What should I do?” “Kill it, and throw it out back.” I
tried to protest, but he had fallen back asleep. Heading back into the bathroom
I stepped over my dog, who had also nodded off. Useless, the both of ‘em. I called my mom and
probed her for wisdom.
“Will you explain to God how you killed one of his
creatures?” Hanging up the phone, I evaluated my situation. I was all alone.
“EET!”
No, that’s wasn’t true. I wasn’t alone. There was still the
mouse, and we needed to come to terms. I watched him for a long while, debating
in my head. At times he seemed to forget about me, and would clean his whiskers,
nibble on a bit of dog food, and poop. I couldn’t help but notice how similar
we were.
But the question remained: What to do with him? I first thought of
taking him down the street or something, and throwing him in a bush. But would
he find his way back? Or would he infest another home? He might even die to
some predator. But what other choice do I have? Could I really kill him? Could
I really end a life, even a mouse’s life, for simply being inconvenienced? I brought
the bucket to my front door with the intent of carrying out my plan, but
stopped right as I opened it.
I knew wasn’t being honest with myself. I’ve killed mice
before, with traps. I’ve squashed bugs. I’ve caught and eaten fish. I’ve eaten
more burgers than I could count. Was I really chickening out now? Was that all I
was, a coward who only kills in the abstract? Here in front of me was a life in
my power. Would I be a man and do what needs to be done? Or avoid the problem
and tell myself I wasn’t already a murderer? I carried the bucket back into my
bathroom.
Very well, if I was to kill him, how? Stab him with a knife?
Too unsanitary. Squash him? Too bloody. Boil him in water? Too cruel. Well, I
thought, if I was going to do the dark deed, I could at least do it with honor.
I would kill him with my own hands. The mouse by now had gotten used to me, and
would only whine when I got too close. He nibbled away, oblivious.
I couldn’t use my bare hands, so I grabbed a baby-wipe. I
tried to reach in the bucket and snatch him, but he immediately jumped on the
cloth and attempted to climb up my hand. I dropped it and him, and cursed.
Smart sucker. He began playing with the wipe: “EET EET!” Running under and
around it, he rubbed his furry coat against the chill cloth. A gift, he must
have thought. I quickly grabbed him when he darted underneath it, so I held the
mouse in the baby-wipe tight in my hand.
Oddly, he was very placid. He didn’t squirm or squeak. I
felt his heart beat in the palm of my hand. He was so small and soft. Cute
even. Consistent, measured breaths from his body synchronized with mine. I held
him as I would a dove, and we sat a moment, living. To think, the mouse had
patiently waited an infinite amount of time to exist. Once born, he enjoyed a
difficult, insignificant, and impossibly brief life before infinity bore down
on him again. And somehow, in the midst of that mind-boggling time span, we
happened to live in the same period together. And across the endless universe,
we happened to find each other. It was an encounter against all odds, and nothing
like it would ever happen again. In my hand was a miracle as rare as life
itself.
I squeezed.
I felt his bones crack. Pinched nerves snapped and healthy
organs burst. I clenched as hard as I could and felt his skin rip through the
cloth. All the while the mouse didn’t make a sound. But it was done. I put him
back in the bucket.
And yet, he lived. His body was collapsed, but somehow his
breathing continued. How, I wondered? “You fool”, I thought, “You unbelievable fool.
You merely inflicted internal rupturing. Instead of giving him a swift, merciful
death, he would now die slowly. Painfully. His last moments of life will be in
agonizing pain as darkness descends. That was your gift to him.”
My hand was covered in blood. I turned on the sink to
boiling hot and scrubbed my hand. Looking back into the bucket I noticed the
mouse had crawled under the baby-wipe. His breathing was slow. “I’m sorry
friend. I’m so sorry.” I took the bucket outside and was going to throw him in
the bushes when I thought of the maggots and smell. So I instead threw him into
our garbage bin with a *clud*. I stared into the dark abyss of the container and
heard, faintly, but distinctly, a soft “Eet…”. I closed the bin.
Now, I noticed, now I was alone.
I washed the bucket out and did some last minute chores.
Soon I was done and jumped into bed. Tucking in, I noticed my hand still
smelled of rodent. Of blood. Of death. I don’t remember my thoughts before I
drifted to sleep and maddening dreams, but I do remember, clear as day, my deep
sense of shame. With that, I nodded off.
