A little over a week ago, while Ben and Peta (my Aussie friends) were still visiting, I got up one morning to make biscuits. I was humming along in the kitchen, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw Roxy (our mama cat) with a toy. Looked like a grey mouse toy we used to have but I hadn't seen it in awhile. She put it down, and... it wriggled. OH MY G-D IT'S A MOUSE!!
I've never had a mouse in my house before and I was so embarrassed to have one while company was visiting. To make matters worse, the mouse got away while Roxy was playing with it, and escaped to who-knows-where. Fervently hoping that the mouse wasn't pregnant or a new mom, we finally shrugged it off - "We have three cats," Keith explained. "If we have a mouse now, we won't for long."
We didn't see the mouse again, or any signs of one - no chewed things in the pantry, no droppings. So we concluded that the mouse must've gotten out of our house, and forgot about it. Until today.
We took our drive out to the country for our raw milk and came home to find a semiconscious grey mouse on the kitchen floor. Fry and Davey, our adolescent kitties, were playing with it. As we realized what they were playing with, before we could react, Davey grabbed the mouse and ran off to our bedroom, where he hid with his prize under the bed. Keith followed, and eventually moved the bed and grabbed the stunned, barely living mouse in a paper towel.
Thus began the struggle of conscience. Neither of us wanted to kill the mouse, but if we let it go outside it would just come back in. We were in full agreement that there was no room for a mouse in our kitchen - yuck! Besides, it was already half-dead. We both wished the cats would've just finished it off, but they were playing with it instead, so clearly the job fell to Keith in his position as Man Of The House.
He took the mouse outside, dispatched it quickly, and tossed it in the trash.
Probably not the most respectful end for a living thing, and we both felt awful about it, but it had to be done. Hopefully we have no other mice, and if we do, I hope the cats actually do their freaking jobs on them. I hate that we have THREE cats and Keith still had to be the one to kill that poor little grey mouse.
So RIP, little guy. Your end at Keith's hands was more merciful than it would've been in Roxy's teeth; I hope that's some comfort.
May no more mice bring us such sad decisions.