The Circle of Life

While snuggling on the couch with my sick three year old, I saw my cat prance into the living room, tail held high. This particular cat, Buster, is almost 15 years old, and a whopping 20 pounds. He does not prance, as a general rule. It could only mean one thing: Buster caught a mouse.

Upon closer inspection, I could see the telltale feet dangling from his mouth. My son, thoroughly engrossed in Toy Story 2, didn't realize that the victorious hunter had brought in the kill, and I wanted to keep it that way. Quickly, before he caught on, I scooted to the kitchen, looking for anything I could use to get the mouse corpse out of my house. Out of the corner of my eye, I could still see the cat, sitting contentedly with the prize in his mouth. He must have seen me looking, because he opened his mouth and dropped the mouse. The mouse shook convulsively, and flipped itself over.

Oh my God, it wasn't dead.

Since my son was still oblivious (thank you, Pixar!), I grabbed the phone and dialed my husband's work number. "There'samouseandhe'sstillaliveandIneedtogethimoutbeforeGriffseeswhatshouldIdo?" I hissed into the phone. My poor husband. As I watched in horror, the little mouse crawled pitifully on the floor, clawing frantically with it's little front paws, back end dragging uselessly behind it.

"Ohmigodit'sparalyzedwhatdoIdowhatdoIdowhatdoIdo?!"

I remembered seeing an empty yogurt container that my husband had washed out. I grabbed it, thinking I could use it to corral the poor thing. I imagined that one quick scoop would do the trick, but I was not bargaining on the paraplegic mouse's courage and will to live. Desperately trying to be casual and inconspicuous, I used the yogurt container to gently lift the mouse, only to have him flip himself out with the strength and grace of an underage Chinese gymnast. We repeated the sequence several times, and each time the mouse eluded me. It didn't help that I was using one hand to hold the phone to my ear, chanting "Ohmigodohmigodohmigod" into the receiver, as though keeping my husband on the phone would somehow make things easier.

Finally, with a score of 4-0 in favor of the mouse, I put the phone down and used the lid to help keep the poor thing inside. Yes! Somehow, my son, in the narcotic haze of Tylenol and Buzz Lightyear, was still unaware of the epic struggle unfolding to his left. I felt the sweet relief of victory, and then the dread returned.

What the hell do I do with a half-dead mouse in a yogurt container?

Tom and Jerry-esque visions danced in my head. Toilet flush? Too big. Knife? Uh, no. Strap him to a dynamite rocket and send him to the moon? The boy would probably notice. In the end, with no other ideas and not a lot of time, I took the cowards way out. I took the most courageous mouse the world has ever seen, and tossed him into a snowbank. Fare thee well, little mouse.

I am going straight to hell.