Wee Timerous Beastie

The evening was usual--the Boy and I in the study on our respective computers, doing what we do... until Boo came trotting proudly into the room with a live mouse in his jaws. Now I'm not the squeally type--in fact, my first reactions was, "Aw crap! Now we're going to have to get a whole new round of shots for the cats." My second reaction was to grab Boo and shake the mouse out of his mouth and sigh as it skittered into the corner and buried its head under a scrap of paper, the only available shelter. Poor thing. I tried to be ruthless. I really did. The Boy was adamant. "It'll just come back into the house and breed. Let the cats take care of it. It's nature's way." Well, nature's way is not always the best way. Say we're watching someone fall off a bridge: oh well, I mean--lungs filling up with water just=death. It's nature's way."

Shut up, you! I know most metaphors don't bear close examination.

In any case, by the time I was done being conflicted, Boo had pounced like lightning and was hurredly secreting the mouse back down the stairs. I chased him until the basement door, and then gave up. (Oh well, "nature's way" and all. I really don't want to see the end of this.)

The cats were both so excited and agitated. Pokey old Nihao was huffing and pouncing on every shadow. Probably because they present less of a challenge than a live, moving mouse would.

In any case, I forgot about it for a while, until I was in the bathroom, er...busy, and Boo wandered in. "Fine," I told him. "As long as you haven't brought your..."
Oh Crikey. He had. And he dropped it directly on top of a stack of towels, where it dazedly burrowed under one. Fervently praying it would stay put, I grabbed a box and scooped it up.

Robert Burns comes to mind: To a Mouse, On turning her up in her nest, with the plough, November, 1785

Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie,
O, what panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!...

And so on.

One of Burns's points is that he evies the mouse, only knowing the present and not dwelling on the past or fearing the future. Though I love the poem, I just can't agree. One of the things that makes me happy is thinking about times other than the present. Not to say the present isn't lovely, but being unable to remember or imagine the future--I think that's the absence of creativity, and a whole lot of other things. I would be a sad tomato indeed if I were unable to hope or recollect memories that are dear to me. If occasionally remembering bad things or fearing what's to come is the price I pay for that, so be it.

Woo. Tangent.

So don't tell the Boy, but I took the mouse-in-a-box to the bottom of the garden and gently set it there. If a certain mouse happens to chew its way to freedom and make its way to the (closer) neighbor's house, well that's just nature's way, isn't it?