Into an old farmhouse next to a barn and surrounded by fields,
when the weather cools in the fall, there is a mass migration of mice. This marks the start of “mouse season” in my home. To date I have a body count of 30. I have even written a series of epitaphs
whimsically documenting their demise.
Earlier this week, you can imagine my surprise when, after
waking up and groggily shuffling into my kitchen, there was a mouse on the
center of my pedestal table. What to do? The only capture possibility nearby was a
Tupperware lettuce saver. But, using something used for food to get a
mouse? Geez, I’d be washing in steaming
water for half an hour. I approached the
creature with malice in my eyes. Maybe I could scare him off; but, NO, as I
drew near, he spoke! . . .
“We have issues that need to be addressed,” this rodent said
aloud.
“You can talk?” I intoned, incredulously.
“You don’t know the half of it, it’s just that we have so
little to talk to you about usually- but, like I say, we need to have some
dialogue now. By way of introduction,
to show you I am not some run-of-the-mill, riff-raff mouse, I go by ‘Norman,’
and I am of the venerable Field clan.”
“Well,” said I, somewhat recovering from a talking mouse, “I
can’t say as though I’m glad to meet you, but I’m Jerry, and what’s on your
mind?”
“You know we chose your house as our winter abode. We migrate
here for warmth and shelter and food until spring season, when we return to our
pastures. We have no intention of becoming permanent residents like those
church mice . No, we take pride in providing for ourselves,” Norman explained
with mousey demeanor.
He went on, “We come in good faith and mean no harm. We make
special effort to stay out of your way and, indeed, even out of sight. We take little in our residence but space you
do not use anyway, and food you would not eat. . .“
“Truth is sometimes a subjective term,” I interjected here,
surprised to find myself reasoning with a mouse, and a somewhat uppity one at
that. “As I see it, you come uninvited
into my personal space, and the belief that you eat only what I would not, you
know as lie. Remember that banana cake I left on the counter one night under Saran
Wrap, only to find it in the morning with the whole crust gnawed off? Oh yeah, I didn’t eat it, but I intended
to. . . if your ‘chompers’ would have left well enough alone. And ungrateful as your tribe is, you then
left your little chocolate sprinkle ‘turdettes’ everywhere. Ugh!”
“No need to get huffy, here” my indignant accuser squeaked in
his fieldly accented voice. ( so uncultured. )
“I’m not huffy, I’m just telling you, you are unwanted in my
spaces.”
Norman went on, “O.K. , but we are here, and while I have not the intellect of deduction, I
discern you are somehow involved in the demise of my extended family. We note
there are some delicious morsels on the premises that, when approached however cautiously,
seem to end up being complicit in a horrible accident with a mortal end. This
happens often”
“It’s called a ‘mouse trap,’ and that’s the purpose.
Attraction and death.”
“How cruel,” Norman cried, “however can you sink to this
level of behavior?”
“I can understand your suffering and not having any other
place for shelter,” I indulged, “but we just cannot co-exist. It’s nature,” I
speak, with half-hearted conviction.
“No, No, No,” a fervent Norman implores, “Mine were here long
before yours and we never did you harm. Never.
Why we cannot get along is why I have chosen to plead. There must be
accord somehow. “
“Norman, ( I have now sunk to addressing a mouse by name
) I feel your plight. I DO. But you know
cats? Cats eat mice. They do. That’s been life as long as we both
have known. Well, think of me as a big
cat. Natural foes. Those “turdettes” are unreconcileable for me. And who knows
where those little pink hands have been crawling around on. GERMS!
Oh, My God! No, Norman, it isn’t to be.”
Head down but with resolve, Norman chokes, “ I am a
mouse. Always will be. This is what we
do. Have you no compassion? No place for
some adjustment? No live and let live? “
“I will try, Norman, I will. But no guarantees. I am grateful for our little talk. Thank you
for your side of this. “
With this, Norman skittered off the table leaving three turdettes
as a hostess gift before he disappeared into the crawl space under the sink.
I reset the traps. The
next morning I found another ‘catch’ in the jaws of my machine . Only this time
it wasn’t ‘another,’ it was Norman, his head delicately poised under the bar,
just short of the peanut butter dollop he was so looking forward to.
I felt genuinely sad, I tell you, I really did.
But a mouse is a mouse and those ‘turdettes’ are just
unconscionable, bastard that I
am.
-Jerry Wendt
2016 890 words
