Dog Eat Dog
I killed a mouse today. He made the mistake of letting me see him run into the garage, so I left a trap baited with peanut butter and he couldn’t resist. I use a live trap because it’s much more reliable and can’t flip over into attic insulation.
So he was alive; more tired than frightened. I killed him. A drop in the grand ocean of life’s ill winds. I don’t regret it. He and his kind spread disease and damage my roof, my siding, and my insulation. Nothing can restrain them, not machine cloth, not flashing, not properly trimmed foliage, not cats, dogs, nor owls. Still they come from flowerbeds dripping with irrigation, along fencelines and through pipes. They chew through ventilators and squeeze between boards. They creep through the attic and sometimes the walls.
He had to go. I am glad to be rid of him, and I’ll kill his relatives if they show their mousy feet ’round here. But I don’t hate him. He was only a beast, doing what nature has shaped him to do. He didn’t mean to be a pest. He had no manifesto, no agenda. He would not have gotten drunk and slashed my tires or my throat with a broken bottle. His kind will never bomb my cities to take my provisions or worse, to silence my voice.
He was beautiful.