The Crankee Yankee and I live in a house built circa 1953. Over the years, his dad and now the Crankee Yankee have made many improvements on it. However, because so much had to be done to repair the roof, we found that a few mice had crept in.
Now, we have five cats, so they have done all the work of flushing them out so that we can keep the mice out. We also installed one of those “mouse be gone” pluginskis that make a noise that only a mouse could hear (and evidently not care much for), and that cut way down on the midnight surprises.
However, our best mouser, Pookie, surprised me the other night with a baby mouse in his mouth. And if there is one baby mouse, you know that there will be more. So up went the traps again, and I was able to gently winkle the little thing out of Pookie’s mouth.
Unfortunately, the trauma of being caught plus being so little, it died in my hand. I felt badly for it, but practically, what could have been done? I took the baby out into our back yard where there are autumn flowers growing wild. I found a soft bit of moss under some yellow asters, and laid him (or her) down onto it.
I said a little prayer for the baby, and asked the angels to send him home where mice have endless fields in which to run and play, with all the food they can eat, and where no cats will find them.
Rest in peace, little one.