*if you're a tad bit squeamish or a super softy, this post might not be for you...see ya next time.
By this point in our lives, we have likely had to come to terms with death - animal or human - and we certainly know what it means to live.
I understand that if I one day have my dream of a little farm to call my own, I'll be experiencing life and death more frequently and on a greater scale, even if my only farm animals are chickens. This morning a mouse tested my grit for such situations. Turns out I don't have much grit.
Snap. The sound that makes you cringe when you have mouse traps set in your house. Around 1 a.m., I decided to leave the trap. I'd much rather pick up and dispose of a stiff mouse than a fresh kill.
Hours later, the coffee was brewing, the alarm was ringing and the mouse trap was in need of checking. Ugh. There it was - tail sticking out from under the stove...as was most of the trap. Confused, I took a breath, grabbed a plastic grocery bag and gently pulled the trap out from under the stove.
Noooooo no no no no no. The intruder wasn't dead! The trap had only caught his leg. Instantly I felt sad for the little guy...felt terrible that he may have suffered all night long trying to get out of that trap.
What do I do? I can't drop a suffering, squirming mouse in the trash! Chop his head off? That's what you would do with a chicken, right? Run him over with the car? Take him out back and whack him with a shovel? I sat on the kitchen floor and stared at him. My dog Marty kept running back and forth between the bedroom and the kitchen to check in. I couldn't do those things...not today. So I put him in a bag. And then another and another and another. And then...then I put him in the freezer. And there is where my once-enemy, now object of my sympathy will spend his day until I get home from work and can take him out to the trash, no longer squirming.
So please, don't mind the mouse in the freezer. He won't be staying for dinner.