Death Haunts Our Hallway

As I boiled water this morning for coffee, I tried to think through the best way to start my day. I thought of all the things that needed to be done, the things that should be done, and wondered if there was anything I really wanted to do.

It was too much to think about. As an avoidance strategy, I decided to fetch a book from the front of the apartment, which requires traveling down a 30-foot hallway to reach. I didn’t have my glasses on, but could see that something dark was on the hardwood floor in the space between the hall runner and the Persian rug of the foyer. Fortunately, just before I reached the blob, I reached the door to the master bedroom suite and took a route around the intruder.

I donned my glasses reluctantly and turned toward the blob. It was a tiny mouse, with froggy-positioned back legs and his/her extraordinarily long tail straight out. It was not alive, for which I felt guiltily relieved. I had already started worrying that I would find an animal in need of medical assistance, and I learned long ago that I may be a Florence Nightingale in intention and imagination, but not in ability or reality.

Poor little guy. I’d seen evidence earlier in the week that he was around. I’d tried unsuccessfully to entice the pooch to eat a bit of oatmeal from a soy sauce dish and left it on the kitchen counter overnight. The next morning, half the oatmeal was gone, and not by evaporation. We had been using ultrasonic gadgets to keep uninvited critters away, but obviously they weren’t working. (Note: Years ago we had an ultrasonic repellent that worked great, but it was discontinued.) Though our previous attempts to catch mice in live traps failed, perhaps oatmeal was the new key. Or perhaps we had to resort to poison, which I hated even thinking about. If the mice would clean up after themselves there wouldn’t be an issue.

Did this little mouse know what I was planning? Why did he make his death so visible? Hadn’t there been enough death in this household for one week? Was this a sign?

If you’re like my neighbors, you may lump mice into the same vermin category as cockroaches and silverfish. But when we were searching for a new home for a pet rat my husband had rescued from our backyard some years ago, we discovered the world of “fancy mice” and the people who love them.

Fancy mice come in as many colors as dogs and cats, with hair that’s long, short, or curly. They win prizes in shows, have articles written about them in magazines, have merchandise and food developed for them, and have adoring guardians just as cats and dogs do. Once you’ve witnessed this alternate universe of pet lovers, I think you’d be hard-pressed to continue viewing mice as vermin.

Sigh. Was this the only mouse in our house? Or do we still have to grapple with the unconscionable act of killing furry creatures?

Again, too much to think about. I’m headed for a book.

[Painting by Evelyn de Morgan; photo from Twice As Mice Mousery.]