Ending a Life

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.