When I came down to feed the dogs last Thursday, I noticed that a small hole, gnawed by a small creature, had appeared over night. About an inch away, under the rug, was a piece of dog food. While I cursed his destruction, I also felt a little sorry that the guy had worked so hard and still gone to bed without supper.
When Bill came down I showed him the evidence and he said, “Looks like we have a mouse.”
We’ve been through this before. “I don’t think we have ‘a mouse’. One. Do you?”
“Yes, I do. I’ll set a trap tonight.”
And he did. Before we were both settled in bed we heard the snap. He could not have looked more victorious if he had slain a bison to get us through the winter. He went to check.
“Do you have a shoebox?”
I looked up from my book, “Well, yes. Are you going to bury him?”
“No. It’s just. He’s not dead yet.”
“There’s one in my car.” (No explanation needed I’m sure.)
He returned sheepish and wincing.
“Did you get him?”
“No, he got away.”
“Did you reset the trap?”
“Ick. Now I’m going to be worried that he’s going to be dashing across the kitchen every time I’m in there.”
“Don’t worry, if you see him in the kitchen he will be running in circles.”
“He’s missing an eye. The trap hit him, it just…”
“Stop, stop, stop!” I said, eyes closed, faced turned away. Killing him brought no qualms; maiming him was unthinkable.
“I still think you should reset the trap.”
“Well, I do think he has friends.”
“You won’t see them tomorrow.”
“They’ll all be on a deathbed vigil,” he assured me as he snapped off the light.