Thursday, August 12, 2010
After I pried the mice’s not quite dead bodies from the traps, I made myself eggs, and tried not to think about how the sounds were haunting me. I didn’t grow up on a farm. I never had to shoot my dog after it contracted rabies. So destroying something that was cute, was not easy. Thinking of all the food that had been spoiled by their dirty paws, and all the shit they left along the floor-boards of my kitchen didn’t help me get over those sounds. It may have just been the air escaping from their tiny lungs as the grip of the tongs crushed their ribs, but in my head those squeaks were pleas for their lives. But I was in no mood for bargaining, and we were not about to share our kitchen with those unwanted tenants. So I ate my eggs and tried my best not to think of it anymore. On my walk to school, I couldn't help but hum the Mickey Mouse song, which for some reason had taken a melancholy-Appalachian-murder-ballad-type quality to it.