Panic being the mother of invention, I figured out a way to catch our guest. It came sniffing out into the basket quite soon, and, leaning around Tasha, I was able to upend the thing and trap the mouse in its wire cage, complete with a chunk of stinky cheese. It scampered around the cage quite freely, squeaking a bit at first.
Then, upon closer look, a discussion of whether we had a large mouse or a baby rat. If rat, we would have to kill it -- which we didn't want to do, so we found good proof that it was a mouse (tail longer than its body, ears large on the head, relatively).
Finally, Boy-Child and I drove the beastie out to a spot overlooking the Columbia River, wild, with plenty of water and rocks to hide under and lots of vegetation (not to mention, many other beasties it may have to fight against to survive).
Leaving it go, despite its earlier energy, it wouldn't move. It was breathing, and its eyes were opening and closing, but it did not seem inclined to leave the new shelter of plastic that we had created for it. I don't know if it is dehydrated, or in shock, or finally succumbing to internal injuries caused by feline intervention.
Trying to think philosophically (desperately trying), at least it died (if it died) an envious death for a mouse, in the sun, with a cool breeze, a cracker smeared with peanut butter just inches away. Far better than fading away in a dark corner on a concrete floor, with a cat pawing at the door, or in the cat's jaws.
Or maybe it was a rat after all. (But it still had a good death.)
No comments:
Post a Comment