I felt a sense of wonder as I watched the mice families appear in the garden, mowing down my parsley. Irritating, were they Italian mice? But house mice, like rats come from the far east, they are non-native species.
Did the Chinese watch the mouse mothers bringing their pups out into the light, into the garden with the same awe, or were they jaded? I watch the pups sniff the flowers and taste everything—knowing that I will have to be the one that puts an end to their reverie. Death too is sacred and so I spend the day watching them, documenting their every move, even when they gleefully eat the poison oats or fall into my trap.
For though they are cute, I cannot coexist with this vermin bloom, promulgated by a neighbor, who feeds all the birds and squirrels in the neighborhood. The mice line up beneath her feeders and propagate until there they are myriads. There are tiny foot paths everywhere. Gleefully they eat the poison or and run across my traps.
I take photos of mice, the size of quarters and admire them for their sleek beauty. But last night, the traps went off, and I caught Mickey Ratoncito, the stage left character, but the trap caught him by the paws. I t released him from the trap, and he looked right into my eyes and then blinked and screamed. There was no longer a division between mouse and human, we were both on the same with wave length. I put him in a glass house and made him as comfortable as I could. He washed his face and perched up, cute as could be. I promised that I would let him go if he survive the poison and the trap. But he was dead by the time the earthquake struck.
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