Choices
Mud, or Straw? Leisure, or Chauffeuring? Cake, or Death?
There are three mice in the kitchen this morning, awaiting their morning transport. I must say I enjoy my unscheduled mornings, but the mice have urgent requirements and cannot be left for long, and so I must pencil in my chauffeuring duties on a daily basis until I have conquered this problem. I lay in bed last night thinking about where I might have put my mouse catching bucket. If you are averse to sadism, the bucket merely has a ramp that entices them to a trap door, where they fall harmlessly into a little pile of straw, awaiting release. This approach permits the capture of many mice, should such be available. Some people have darker methods, which, frankly, I deplore. It’s one thing to briskly kill a mouse whose presence is a health hazard. It’s another to torment a living creature. I say this as someone who saves beetles from swimming pools.
Eli, who, like his brother, is in the category of unnecessary complications not welcome on my morning expeditions, is now lying across from me and squeaking under his breath, which I think means he’s hungry. Or else that he is simply feeling ignored while I work. The command and control approach my dogs take toward their activities requires exquisite discernment. My husband is somewhat out of commission with a cold, putting me solely in charge of all canine care and activity, and this can be a major distraction. These subtle—and not so subtle—ploys could mean that they are hungry, or need to go out, or are wishing for some love. Or it could mean that they’ve decided to promote themselves into positions of authority and demote me into eternal servitude. It’s difficult to tell. So, as with infants, you must investigate the avenues of possibility to distinguish genuine need from tyranny. Having done this and found the latter to be the case, the only correct response is to tell them to lie down and be quiet. Sometimes I have to harden my heart.
So you see, my animal servitude is multi-faceted, but I suppose that’s what stewardship means. It’s what love means, too, which is actually another form a stewardship.
Meanwhile, the grass seed—thoughtfully scattered over the mud and covered with thick straw by Gardening Soulmate, Joe—has been discovered by the turkeys, and I now find them daily in the front and side yards busily scratching away at the straw to get at the seed. What’s more, instead of mud, we now have straw all over the house, which, I suppose is an improvement, but that’s debatable. Please send snow.
And now, I have a squeaky dog who is almost certainly asking for breakfast. Must run.
Happy Wednesday.
This delightful essay is why I subscribe to you. That and your kindness to all animals. Eli has his mommy wrapped around his big ole paw!!
When I was five-years-old, I accidentally stepped on a cricket and killed it. I cried and felt guilty for days. At the age of 72, I am still that little girl.