The Mouse Trap

Mouse Trap

I set a mousetrap in the kitchen last night—a grim little contraption, all sharp edges and spring-loaded violence. The kind of thing that feels like it belongs in some deranged cartoon, but there I was, playing executioner. The mouse had been taunting me for days, scuttling around like it owned the place, leaving its filthy calling cards in the corners. It was war.

When I woke this morning, the trap had done its job. There it was—caught, alive, and looking at me with those beady little eyes, as if to say, You bastard. I couldn’t kill it, though. Not like that. So I stuck the thing in an old shoebox, grabbed the leash, and took it along on the dog walk.

At the park, I opened the box, and the mouse bolted—free again, racing into the grass, probably terrified out of its tiny mind. The dog watched the whole thing with mild disinterest, sniffing at a nearby pile of something unmentionable. I stood there, wondering if I’d just given the mouse a new lease on life or handed it over to an owl’s breakfast. Hard to say. Life’s a cruel game either way.