The mouse was so small, I almost dismissed it as accumulated lint in the sticky trap. Tiny and gray with desiccated pink ears and a thin hind leg that was so shapely, so evocative of something that once lived and leaped. It was dead, and I was grief-stricken. Poor small wretch with whom we could not share a morsel and a warm place under the refrigerator. I had suggested a live trap. The landlord sent someone with sticky traps.
These traps were set in summer. Nothing was caught. Fall came, then winter. We had long forgotten the rodent activity perceived in that season of bright, warm days. We believed that the entry point had been blocked and that no mouse, rat, or similar creature could access the sanctified interior of our home.
Our erroneous belief was corrected during a little routine cleaning under the appliances. It was early. I was trying to get another cup of coffee, but my husband was beginning the chores. The refrigerator was moved. The tiny body was discovered. I could not get to the coffee. After providing some minimal assistance, I retreated to the bathroom. Sobbing as I cleaned the cat litter box, I regretted the fate of the hapless mouse. Why should he die and I live on?
“I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion
Has broken Nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion
An’ fellow-mortal!”
-To a Mouse, by Robert Burns