When we moved into our current house, we had a mouse problem. We were catching two or three a day with those glue traps, which are just fucking awful. Usually, when we found them, they had already died, but on a few occasions, they were still breathing, moving, struggling to escape.
The first one I found like that was just looking up at me, so terrified. "Hey, buddy..." he said. "Can I get some help? I'm havin' a rough time, here."
"I'm sorry, Mortimer" I said. "I'm really sorry." I don't know if his name was Mortimer or not, but this is the name I give to all animals that are dead -- or who seem to have a high potential for death. Any 'possum I meet is immediately dubbed a "Mortimer" since they seem to have an unrivaled talent for dying. And, I suppose, when you think about it, we're all just Mortimers in the end.
"Buddy," he said. "I could really use a cigarette. Or a shot of whiskey. Come on, man...don't hold out on me..."
I didn't say anything. I mean, what could I say?
I took him out to the garage and, if you don't want to know what happened next, you should probably stop reading now. I, the reluctant executioner, took the trap and slid it into the thin, cardboard package that it had been purchased in. I placed that package in a plastic bag, which I laid on the floor. Then I took a foot-long section of 2X4 and placed it over the package in the bag and, stepping on it, I crushed out whatever life he still had in him.
There was this tiny squeak of "fuck you!" as I brought my considerable weight to bear on that piece of lumber. I bounced just a little to make sure that the condemned had truly joined his eternal rest. Silence followed. I was alone.
"Fuck this," I said. "Fuck." I whispered another quiet apology to Mortimer, followed by an angry, godless prayer to an uncaring universe. Then I went inside and told my wife we needed to get a cat.
The first one I found like that was just looking up at me, so terrified. "Hey, buddy..." he said. "Can I get some help? I'm havin' a rough time, here."
"I'm sorry, Mortimer" I said. "I'm really sorry." I don't know if his name was Mortimer or not, but this is the name I give to all animals that are dead -- or who seem to have a high potential for death. Any 'possum I meet is immediately dubbed a "Mortimer" since they seem to have an unrivaled talent for dying. And, I suppose, when you think about it, we're all just Mortimers in the end.
"Buddy," he said. "I could really use a cigarette. Or a shot of whiskey. Come on, man...don't hold out on me..."
I didn't say anything. I mean, what could I say?
I took him out to the garage and, if you don't want to know what happened next, you should probably stop reading now. I, the reluctant executioner, took the trap and slid it into the thin, cardboard package that it had been purchased in. I placed that package in a plastic bag, which I laid on the floor. Then I took a foot-long section of 2X4 and placed it over the package in the bag and, stepping on it, I crushed out whatever life he still had in him.
There was this tiny squeak of "fuck you!" as I brought my considerable weight to bear on that piece of lumber. I bounced just a little to make sure that the condemned had truly joined his eternal rest. Silence followed. I was alone.
"Fuck this," I said. "Fuck." I whispered another quiet apology to Mortimer, followed by an angry, godless prayer to an uncaring universe. Then I went inside and told my wife we needed to get a cat.