Of Mice and Men

This mrning at work, over by the bird seed, I happened upon a mouse that was wounded but still alive. It looked like it had been rolled over by one of the ladders on wheels. The base of its tail was skinned pretty badly and blood trickled from its backside. Exposed and helpless out on a cold concrete floor is no place to pass, so to save its dignity, I got my leather gloves and picked it up to remove it. The mouse didn't try to run, it didn't even flinch, it just sat there in my palm, sniffing and blinking. I think it knew it was already going to die. I took it outside to the edge of the parking lot and placed it under a low dense shrub. I could feel my heart shatter as it struggled using its two good front feet to pull itself farther under the bush.

Did I do the right thing? Would a quick mercy killing have been better? I can't help but feel that by chickening out from my own ick factor, I only prolonged the poor creature's slow inevitable death.

Later, after lunch, I was back on the floor. Walking up to the seasonal department desk, Kelly gleefully pointed down into a small cardboard box she had. "See what I found!" she said as I looked down upon a tiny little baby mouse nibbling on a Cheez-It. The little guy was easily the size of a quarter. I picked it up and it settled right into my hand, crawling up to my wrist as I used a finger to pet it. I took my other hand over top and made a clamshell, and the mouse pressed its tiny body into the back. When I tried to put it back in the box, it resisted by climbing up away from whatever angle I held my hand and back into my palm, so I picked it up level again along with a cheez-it crumb. I pet it for a few more minutes while it nibbled on the cracker.

It almost felt like a symbolic reincarnation of sorts. In my imagination, that little injured mouse came back to me to say "Thanks, friend."