Skip to main content

Morris, the mouse, and me

One summer day when I was a little girl, probably 5 or 6, I go into the backyard only to find my kitty Morris, my much adored orange tabby who sleeps with me every night, playing with a mouse. This mouse is not a present for me like on previous occasions but food and entertainment for Morris. "Morris, no." I say batting him away from the mouse. First Morris tries slinking off with the mouse pretending to be in trouble for something else. Then he tries hovering over it like its not there. Finally I pick Morris up and carry him away. The mouse is seriously injured by now. Who knows how long Morris'd been playing with it.

I stand looking at the mouse trying to think how to help. I know injured animals who can't survive are to be "put out of their misery" and I know what that means. I also know I can't wield a shovel (short arms and whatnot.) So I use my most powerful feature, my little leg. I try stepping on the mouse in order to do the humane thing. Of course I probably weigh 35 pounds so its not working. I'm crying now, but I don't know what else to do. I step on him a few more times then remember how mice can flatten themselves and realize this won't work. Guilt pours in at the fact that I'm making it worse instead of putting the poor guy out of his misery. Finally, I pick it up the mouse and decide to comfort him, thinking if I explain, it will make things better. "I'm so sorry, little guy." I sob. And of course the mouse bites me.

I begin screaming hysterically, "Mom, I've got rabies! Mom, I've got rabies!"

I'm pretty sure my mom got the shovel.

Comments

  1. I vivdly remember this, and I finished that mouse off good. I remember being very angry that it bit you so I introduced it to my Louisville slugger (yes, the same one that I swung into your head accidentally). No one hurts my sister but me!

    -Matt

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Home birth- The real fuckin deal

So the end of pregnancy is for the fuckin birds. I'm sure plenty of you out there know this. There's nothing to say but that you're sick of being pregnant. You're a little sick of the sweet smiles and knowing looks from strangers. You're just all over sick of it. You're spectacularly sick of the: when's your due date how far are you are you having a boy or a girl I bet you're sick of this what hospital are you going to, conversations. You miss when people used to ask about the soccer game you played or the book you're reading. You're sick of swollen handsfeetfaceneckanklesEVERYTHING. Oh and from the beginning of pregnancy until FRIDAY, I had NO stretch marks. Friday my entire lower abdomen erupted into one. giant. stretch mark. So all weekend, I thought, please let this be over soon. Every cramp I felt I welcomed and thought, "whatever work my body does now, it doesn't have to do during labor." Little did I know how much

Having Babies at Home

My whole life, I've heard the story of my cousin Anna's birth. And her sister's too. But I hear more about Anna's. My aunt didn't exactly have a lot of love for the medical profession. And her first baby had been a horrible experience. She'd had him wrenched from her at least as much as she "gave him up" for adoption by nursing staff who leered at her and called her unpleasant names. And she loved him when he was born. And she found him when he turned 18 and loved him till the day she died. When she had kids for keeps, she did it differently. She read books and assigned duties and had them at home. She was brave and surely faced many people who disagreed with her decision. But she stuck by her convictions and her desire for a natural birth and won 2 beautiful girls. My mom was there when Anna was born. So was her sister, Kristina. They both still get this sparkle in their eyes whenever they talk about it. My mom says it was one of the most

Wednesdays' Weirdos: Mouse-stache-kateer

Need I even type something?