Operation Mousekill

My father was not a hysterical person. Emotion never clouded his thoughts. He was brigadier general in the New York Guard. He understood chain of command. He understood that certain duties did not fall under his job description. And he understood that delegation was the perk of being a commander. So when he was sitting in my family room with me reading his NY Times and out of the corner of his eye and mine we both saw a mouse run by, my father simply said Ka you are going to have to take care of that. And he went back to reading. And I understood--- I was on my own on this one.

I had no experience with mice. Until that point I thought that field mice were sweet little creatures—furry little pets that helped Cinderella get ready for the ball.  But I can assure you, when you discover that there is a mouse dwelling in your domicile—it is no longer cute. There is a filthy varmint stealing security away from your home. The enemy has landed and extermination is the only solution.

So I called my brother Mark for advice. He lived at that time in a house in a wooded area with a stream. He eradicated varmints all the time---uglier ones—like moles. And my brother told me to go buy snappy traps and set them up in a cluster. He specifically said do not buy glue traps. So of course I bought both kinds--snappy and the glue variety. I like to exhaust my options.

And I set the snappy traps up as he described and then I put a few glue traps surrounding the snappy cluster. And I used chocolate and peanut butter as the lure. And sure enough the morning after I set the traps up I captured the little creature—he was stuck in the glue trap---and he was very much alive. I felt terrible—for both the mouse and for me.

So I called Mark. I told him nearly hysterically that there was a living mouse stuck in a glue trap trying desperately to set himself free. And I wanted him to drive from Smithtown to Garden City to do something about it—it was tax season after all and my husband was of no use. And of course my brother was unsympathetic. In fact he yelled at me for using the glue traps when he specifically told me not to. And this was the reason why—glue traps are not humane. Mice suffer a long death in them. With a snappy trap death was quick—and so was the cleanup.

So he told me that no, he was not coming over and now it was my ethical duty to euthanize the mouse. And while yes, I had pithed living frogs—this was different. Amphibians were lower on the food chain than tiny mammals.I felt sick. I did not want to play Dr. Kevorkian.  And the mode of death did not sound appealing either—drowning or bopping him over the head ala little Rabbit Foo Foo.

But I knew I had to kill that mouse. My brother was right. I didn’t want the mouse to suffer. So I decided the little Rabbit Foo Foo method was the swiftest and most painless for both the mouse and for me.  And my brother had me find a wooden board and a 5 lb hammer to accomplish the task. And I set the small board over the trap but remained paralyzed. Now you have to understand that my brother stayed on the cordless phone with me during this entire time---I was too afraid to hang up. And as I held the hammer in my hand I started to cry and told my brother I just couldn’t do it. And he told me to channel Jim Morrison and the Doors and think about the song this is the end my friends. And I channeled Jim and I swung-- multiple times. I swung Maxwell’s silver hammer until he was dead—unquestionably dead.

And I was exhausted. And Mark told me I had to remove the board to confirm the kill—which I did. I expected to see blood and gore-- but I did not. That is not what the dead mouse looked like at all. The best way to describe the physical condition of the mouse was to say that it looked like Wile E Coyote after he got run over by the steam roller. The 1 x 2 inch mouse flattened out to a 3 x 5 postcard. Oh he was dead alright. He was a fur shingle. And I thanked my brother and I threw that formerly three dimensional beast away.

When I reported back to my father that I had accomplished my mission, he nodded and said good job. Operation Mousekill was a success. He practically saluted but I would not receive a star. I had not obeyed my brother’s initial orders. It resulted in a tactical error on my part. I had to battle death in a way unforeseen in the plans. But then again, my father could have helped me instead of delegating—but killing mice wasn’t in his specs---that’s what private first classman were for. Soldiers kill and commanders plan.