I’m Guilty of Voluntary Mouse Slaughter
Is it a capital offense?
I’ve killed ten mice at my home. Six with the traditional metal pedal traps. I snapped myself once trying to arm one of the devices. The tension propelled the bar like a catapult, catching my index finger. I leaped around, cursed, and flicked my hand to release it.
Some light finger throbbing is nothing compared to what happened to the mice when caught. They died instantly or were dead when I found them in the morning underneath large kitchen appliances. Save for one tough S.O.B. that drug itself, mortally wounded, to the middle of the floor. One minute you’re scavenging for crumbs and the next your back is broken, lungs crushed, the air squeezed out of you like a bagpipe. Such is life. For a moment, I felt sorry for the dead mice. Then I remembered my morning ritual for the last two months. Cleaning mouse poop off our oven range, the countertops, and the drawer in the bottom of the stove.
Four mice got stuck in glue traps over the course of a week. My dog scraped at the floor with his paws signaling the location of each captured invader. I pulled the first trap out from the shadows with a chopstick. Flush to the yellow adhesive on its belly was the mouse, struggling to get free. It used all of its remaining strength to tilt its head, look up at me with its black eyes, wide and terrified, and whisper…
