A Real Mouse

                                                                    A Real Mouse

Deep philosophy in the shallows of everyday life

I've written about a mouse before, but that was a computer mouse, a small oval-shaped device in a plastic shell. Here, I’m talking about an actual live mouse, an animal of the order Rodentia, a small, grayish creature with a long tail. Everybody knows what a mouse looks like.

I went to the kitchen early to prepare for my morning stretches and walk. I've stopped jogging. It's hard, and sometimes my heart gives me trouble.

I had just put on my training pants when I heard a snap. Clearly, it was the mousetrap. Nothing else in the kitchen could have made that sound. I quickly peered behind the refrigerator where I had placed the trap. It had been triggered, and a stunned mouse lay convulsing next to it.

The little beast was still alive! I had to deal with it. But how? A dust scoop was hanging on the wall next to the fridge. I grabbed it, intending to finish off the mouse and convey it to the trash bin. No such luck! The mouse had wedged itself under the refrigerator, with only the tip of its tail sticking out. I tried to catch the tail with the dust scoop and drag the animal out. It didn’t work. The mouse was wriggling, desperately fighting for its dear life. Then it disappeared into the barely centimeter-wide gap under the refrigerator. It was gone... The mouse wasn’t stupid. It wanted to live.

What a predicament! I didn’t need unwelcome roommates in my house. I didn't invite them! One evening, as I was settling into bed with my collection of Agatha Christie stories, I was horrified to see... a mouse on my pillow. My first thought was, have I gone mad? Or did I overindulge in that rowanberry brandy earlier? I put a mousetrap under the bed just in case the mouse was real. The next morning, it presented me with my uninvited guest. I wondered whether it was male or a female. But who can tell the sex of a mouse?

Joking aside, a mouse isn't a car or a computer. You can't make one with your hands. It's one of God's creatures, a mammal, just like a tiger, an elephant, or even a whale. A mouse has a heart, lungs, kidneys, and reproductive organs. A male mouse (a buck?) mates with a female mouse, just as a man does with a woman. Pregnancy follows, then birth. Everything’s the same as it is with people. Mice even have a courtship period during which males produce sounds that are inaudible to the human ear but act like love poems and attract females. A mouse's brain—which is about half the size of a pea, is functionally identical to a human's. Like a human, a mouse wants to live in comfort and safety, reproduce, and enjoy life.

What if it dies under the fridge? Would it stink? I needed to move the fridge and check underneath. The refrigerator was huge and loaded with food. Everything needed to be taken out of it. There went my morning exercise... Together, my wife and I pushed the refrigerator away from the wall. Dust covered its back. I saw tubes sticking out of the compressor that had been cut and sealed off, their ends covered with a suspicious green coating. It had seemed to me over the past year that our refrigerator's working cycle was too long; it rarely stopped running. I had called a repairman. A thick-lipped redheaded guy showed up. He looked like a blockhead and, as it turned out, he really was one. He cut out part of the refrigerant line, sealed the ends (which became corroded), charged us a hefty sum, and left. After that "repair," the fridge started cutting off even less frequently. It now runs almost constantly. What did you do, you red-haired bastard? You bungler! You’re a son of a bitch and an utter sleazebag! You ruined our refrigerator! I'm a pensioner. I can't afford to buy a new fridge. Our pensions are barely enough to keep us from starving. We're poor Russians. Still, I try to eat well, and, apparently, I manage to do so. For breakfast, I eat two walnuts, half a banana, and a bowl of buckwheat with milk or oatmeal. Sometimes I’ll have an egg. I take a pill for hypertension and drink coffee. After the food they served me in the Soviet Army—practically pig swill—I'm not picky about food at all.

I left for my walk much later than usual that morning. As I walked to the sports ground, I wondered where I’d find the money for a new refrigerator when this one finally stops working? I exercised and puffed without much enthusiasm, out of a sense of duty.

When I got back home, I baited the mousetrap with a piece of cheese and set it in a new spot, behind the cupboard. The next morning, the mousetrap's metal bar was pressing firmly down on a mouse’s crushed head.

So, I ended the life of one of God's creatures. I didn't create it, but I killed it. Did I do the right thing? Did I have the right to? Who can say?

Translated by J. McVay