Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

Sometimes, my poetry instructors used to insist, you have to write about the things that are hardest to write.

The more I avoid writing about this, the more guilt burns my throat.

But what I did wasn't intentional; things just went horribly, horribly wrong.

Those who have been following Musings know that I was making every effort to convince the mousies to leave my apartment through nonviolent means. They had been eating my dog's kibble, dashing back and forth across the floor, making loud squeaking noises and pooping on everything in sight. It was time to give them eviction papers.

First, I purchased live traps at the Home Depot, which were ignored. I surmised this was because they were too small and cramped to be appealing, even with the lure of peanut butter and cheese.

Not to mention, these traps had the annoying habit of closing by themselves. Possibly even before the mouse managed to get inside.

So then I tried an herbal solution: a minty oil that, sprayed on cloth bags and left in areas of mouse activity, were supposed to discourage them from sticking around. This worked temporarily, but soon the mousies got used to it and the noisy, squeaky pooping parties continued.

I bought another type of live trap, this one larger and clear so that I could see at a glance if somebody had wondered in. The problem with this one, I figured, was that the adventurous mouse still had to push open a swinging door to get inside at the food.

Meanwhile, my sister had suggested I remove all possible food sources so that the mousies would have no choice but to check out the trap. I bought a plastic container for my dog's kibble and started storing her biscuits in the refrigerator. Still no luck.

Still striving for a karmically responsible solution, I bought yet another kind of live mousetrap. This one had an open door which was tripped once the mouse got inside. It looked like the final solution.

Everything might have worked out much happier if I hadn't gone away for the weekend and forgotten to put the traps away. What I found when I returned still haunts me.

I was in the process of putting away my things when I noticed the traps were still out in the kitchen, instead of being placed in the refrigerator while I was gone. Not expecting any success, I checked them anyway. Inside one of them was a still, small bit of fur.

"Oh, no!" I shrieked to The Gryphon. "I caught one, and it died!"

Inside the trap was a large piece of cheese, hardly touched, along with copious amounts of mouse poop. The mouse might have been there for days, while no one was here to free it to the new life I'd been hoping to release it to.

Later, I took the mouse out back and buried it. The tiny body was so small I could barely believe it had made so much noise, caused so much trouble. It looked much smaller than what I'd seen zipping along the edges of the wall, and it's tiny pink feet, curled up like tiny, delicate hands.

As I buried it, I said a prayer over it, asking the Great Spirit to take this small spirit back into the fold. I cried for days afterwards.

In the days since, my apartment has been quiet, immeasurably so. No squeaking, no scurrying, and no new signs of chewing or pooping. This is what I wanted but not the way I wanted it.

The Gryphon, sympathetic over my grieving, told me, gently, "You know, the Japanese say that it's the intent that matters."

Somehow, good intentions hardly seem good enough.

Sometimes when I'm outside while my dog romps in the yard, I think I hear a squeaking on the wind. The Gryphon says I'm being too hard on myself, and he's probably right.

Of course, the next task will be mouse-proofing the home: clearing weeds and brush away from the foundation and plugging any small holes that could allow entry. I'll take up this task soon, before another mouse blunders into a house where it's not wanted.

Keeping more mice safe from a deadly, if unintended fate, will be my way of atonement.

A Happier Mouse Story:

January 6, 2004 - Free Mousie

Copyright 2003 by Alyce Wilson

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