As I sat at my desk today, happily typing away, if I wanted a reminder of the temporary nature of our lives on this planet, all I had to do was look to the floor on my right and see the poor little mouse snapped in the mousetrap.
He appeared to be grinning at me.
He’s a big brute, too. Even though he’s snapped around the middle, he dragged the mousetrap about six feet, across my cubicle. I’d have said, well, snap, I guess I’m dead. Not this guy.
The voles outside have chased the mice inside. This is problematic for a few reasons. First, they’re likely hantavirus carriers. That being the case brings the second difficulty: We’re not allowed to clean them up. We have to call an industrial hygienist who dispatches someone else to come clean up the tiny little (and, frankly, stinky) corpse, with rubber gloves, chemicals and a nice little plastic bag for the burial.
The mouse – but not its whiffiness – departed at about 9 am. I hope this doesn’t turn into the Foul Ole Ron of mice.
Whiffiness hung on until about 3 pm. Hopefully, it's not that I'm just used to it.
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