Mouses gonna mouse

And why I really ought to wear ear plugs to bed

After I had gone early to bed the dogs spent an entertaining evening alerting me and anyone within earshot to the pack of coyotes in the woods. This happened more than twice, but after that I stopped counting. So you can imagine my delight when I woke around 3am to the sound of something clattering in the kitchen.

Some instinct told me instantly it was a mouse, and I hesitated, wanting to stay in bed. Whatever trouble it had gotten into was clearly the mouse’s problem, and if he were going to have the nerve to prowl my kitchen in the dark, he could jolly well take the consequences. But a vision of a pathetic creature with, perhaps, its tail caught, loomed before me, and muttering to myself, I dragged myself out of bed and into the kitchen. The four traps I had put out—I always put out one more trap than was used the night before—were three quarters full. The clattering trap was one of the smaller mice of the collection, but he was vigorously protesting his imprisonment, or else noisily chewing the piece of kibble I left him. But he was not in any physical distress that I could see, so I went back to bed and put a pillow over my head.

Later in the daylight, I was puzzled to see a small pile of white dust on the floor next to the plastic trap where the intransigent one was waiting. I looked more closely and realized that the rear compartment of the trap, where the bait is put, and which is used to release the mice into the wilderness, had not been properly inserted into its grooves, leaving a tiny crack. My little friend had been busily gnawing his way through the plastic, hoping to escape. Both impressed and somewhat alarmed, I put them all into the bottom of a brown grocery bag, and hurried to get dressed. It occurred to me during this process that it would have been smarter to put the bag outside, but I just hurried instead.

When we—the mice and I—arrived at the drop-off location, the sun was already high, but it was still only 25F. I pulled my knitted cap over my uncombed hair and peered into the bag. Three sets of liquid eyes gazed up at me, all still secure in their plastic cells. Relieved—because a mouse in the car is even harder to capture than one in the house— I carried the bag out to the beginnings of the tall grass at the edge of the woods. This is where many of my former mice have been released, and they may or may not have survived there. I do not, however, consider this my problem. The escape artist was poised at the door, sensing his opportunity, and when I pulled up the end cap, he leapt forward, hopped energetically into the tall grass, and disappeared. His fellow prisoners did the same, all with speed.

I always feel a pang at releasing these creatures to take their places at the bottom of the food chain. But I figure they have a chance, which is better than they would have had with another kind of trap. I am not an advocate of cruelty, but that doesn’t mean I need to keep mice as roommates, so I wish them Godspeed, and walk to my car without a backward glance. Life is hard sometimes. But I’ll be glad when the day comes that the traps are empty, and I can live my life without buying Clorox by the carton.

Meanwhile, somewhere, a hawk is circling.

***

“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.” ~Julian of Norwich

And now for your gratuitous dog photos:

Auggie, who is really missing his daddy, wanted to be cuddled this morning. When I bent down to put my face against him, he put his paw around me.

Eli finds barking at coyotes most exciting, and watches hopefully for another opportunity.

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