3 Ginger Snaps

Not so long ago, when we lived out in the country, I killed more than my fair share of rodents. Mostly mice. Occasionally raccoons. Once a porcupine and once a skunk. It is a dark chapter of my 4 years of rural existence.

Autumn was always the worst season for this macabre task. As the days grew shorter, mice that had enjoyed life in our patch of the woods sensed the need for shelter and found their way indoors through every nook and cranny they could squeeze through. One winter, I think it may have been 2015, we had a particularly bad infestation. The signs of trouble were all there by November – the tell tale droppings, the scurry of claws in the air ducts – but I don’t think I did anything about it until January. And since female mice can reproduce as early as 6 weeks of age, that was more than enough time for a considerable problem to develop. Suffice to say that resetting the traps was a nightly chore straight through to March. It was unpleasant.

It was not uncommon for me to find myself contemplating my own mortality as I smeared another dab of peanut butter onto another trap and tucked that trap under a bookshelf or in the gap between a storage bin and the wall, or, once, in a kitchen drawer that a particularly industrious individual had ascended to and where it had taken a liking to our silicone oven mitts. It didn’t really matter how many times I reset the traps, I never really could come up with a suitable justification for killing the mice.

Fall is most definitely around the corner and it comes as no surprise to me that the mice are back in my life. They are indifferent to the fact that I no longer reside in the country. Just this week I stayed the night at my sisters apartment in Toronto, to save myself an early morning commute, and my extermination skills were pressed into service. I went to sleep around 10:30pm only to be awakened at midnight by the unmistakable snap of metal on flesh. I rose from the couch, disposed of the body, and tried to get back to sleep. While freeing corpse from trap, I happened to notice this book on the shelf:

It’s a pretty disruptive book. I ate a disproportionate amount of delicious meat while we traveled through Asia. But this week, so far, I haven’t eaten any.

Tonight when I got home from work, Arden greeted me in the driveway with the news that there was a dead chipmunk in the pool and that we were going to be having a funeral.

Before the funeral, we got a good look at the chipmunk. Ruby commented that the long claws on its feet looked just like our fingers. Arden said that the tail was long just like an elephant’s trunk. I remarked that chipmunks, elephants, and people are all mammals.

Then we dug a hole. Then we put the chipmunk in the hole. Then we buried it. Then it was bath time.

I’m not sure if I should be taking opportunities like this one to talk to my kids about pool safety or death or the impact of humans on animals or none of it or all of it.

I do know that since experiencing the density of Asia a few months ago I’m thinking about my own footprint more. I also know that I watched a southbound monarch butterfly attempt to cross the 401 on Tuesday afternoon. I was in the westbound lane commuting home and the stop and go traffic gave me a long glimpse of the creature’s erratic flight. It dipped and tumbled through the air, following, what appeared to be from my vantage point, the most precarious of paths. Then it passed over the center median of Canada’s busiest highway, ascended to avoid an eastbound 18-wheeler, and the last I saw of it, the majestic insect was blasted skyward on a plume of exhaust as the diesel motor surged and the truck lurched forward a few metres. Such a cost for such a tiny gain…

The ancient spiritual beliefs of Asia continue to circle my imagination and I cannot shake the thought that the possibility exists that when this life ends another one might begin where I find myself cast in the role of butterfly or mouse or seahorse or Canadian goose and that all the obstacles of this life will immediately seem insignificant in comparison to the demands of simply trying to stay alive in the next one.