Of Moose and Mice

Depending on where you live in this huge province, moose hunting season is upon us; different zones begin on different dates. (But let me throw this bit of information out there for warm climate tourists. You will never sight nor hunt moose in Toronto, Montreal or other fine southern Canadian cities. Well, if you do attempt to sight and/or hunt, you will do so in vain. I say this because I hear that it has been attempted by some visitors. It may very well be an urban myth; however, you can't be too careful.)

Not being a hunter, you'd think that the moose season would not be relevant to me, and it isn't except that for me personally, the mouse season is also upon us. It's only a one letter difference after all.

You see, as the weather cools, for some reason local mice begin make a beeline mouseline right into our garage casting longing looks at the basement wall, knowing that there lies a modicum of warmth on the other side.

We've caught four of the blighters in the past week.

I really don't like snapping their little necks and snuffing their little lives like that, but they simply can't be permitted access. It just wouldn't work out. In times past, I've shared both my car and my bed with with mice, and let me tell you that the experience did not work out to our mutual satisfaction.

But I really hate it when the trap doesn't spring properly, like it didn't a few days ago, when one poor little, terrified fella was caught by the cheek.

What to do? He's injured, so you can't set him free. I mean, what do you do?

Fortunately (I guess), I have role models to follow.

For one, I have my father's example, for I vividly remember the cat bringing a trophy in the form of a live mouse into the kitchen one fine day. I was even more shocked by my dad's rapid response of stomping the critter. I never thought of my dad as a quick thinking sort of guy, but he sure was on that day. He stomped with great and fervent alacrity before said mouse could even begin to think of making a beeline mouseline to any sort of nook or cranny. It was a most impressive display by dear old dad.

On another occasion, somewhat later in my life, I saw how Cuppa's dad put a badly trapped mouse out of its misery by holding under the faucet until it drowned.

So, what to do with our poor wee mousie caught by the cheek? Personally, drowning doesn't seem like fun to me, so I opted for the quick, booted stomp.

I hated doing it. I don't like killing. I remember a Clint Eastwood western (I think) where he opines to Morgan Freeman (I think) that it's an awful thing to kill a man because you take away the only thing that he really has — his life (I think). I feel the same way about killing animals and even insects. To wit: I will try to capture a spider who has found its way into our little abode and release it outside. I am also here to inform you that I only take a small amount of satisfaction in swatting the life out of a biting mosquito. So, it was really hard for me to stomp the mouse into oblivion. Really hard: heart poundingly and body-shakingly hard. And if that admission makes me a womanish wimp in the the eyes of blogdom, so be it.

I know that others feel differently about taking animals' lives, but this is the way that I feel. Yes, I eat meat, mostly because I'm too tired and harried these days to figure out how to be a planet and life friendly vegetarian. It would please me if I could or would though.

So that's my little mousecapade. Let's hope that the news of our unfriendly welcome gets around and that any other mice searching for winter warmth take their little bods to one of the many other fine and more hospitable neighborhood establishments.

For a little light relief, I offer you Mouse in the Mug on the Uilleann Pipes. I know I'm reaching, but it's all I've got.